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THE 


LADIES'    lEEPSAIE, 


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HOME  LIBRARY 


E3JBELLISHED    WITH   NUMEROUS    ErsGKAVlNGS 


-<  •  '^'  •  ♦ 


NEW  YOKK  : 
BCRDICK    &     SCOVILL 

No.   8   SPRUCE   STREET. 


IpAN  STACK 


.'   -2  3 


INDEX. 


Aloise  Senefelder, 77 

A  Picture, 100 

A  Glimpse  at  Fairy  Land, 101 

A  Hideous  Monster, 108 

Advice  to  a  Young  Lady, 114 

A  Sister's  Value, l-jO 

A  Biblical  Critic, 173 

Captain  Smith  and  Pocahontas. 147 

Every  Day  Life, 37 

For  an  Album, 27 

Flowers, 119 

Home,  ....  .... 80 

Hints  for  Lovers, 199 

I  was  Sick  and  ia  Prison, 74 

Jeanne  D'Arc, - »  - S3 

Lord  Stanhope  to  Lady  Shirley, 27 

Love  on, <52 

Live  to  Do  Good, 71 

Leave  me  Alone, 206 

My  Wife  is  the  Cause  of  it, *  131 

Marv  Warren, 165 

Midnight  Musings^ 200 

Make  one  Happy  Heart, 132 

Our  Common  Joys, 30 

Position  and  Character, 72 

Pleasant  Words, '3 

Power  of  Consistency, 126 

Poetry, 182 

Romance  of  Ancient  History, 13 

Religion, 18^ 

Itevolutionary  Adventure, 187 

Sin  no  more, ^ 34 

Spring,  121 

Sadness, 195 


T^88 


17  INDEX. 

PAOE 

Transient  Joys 28 

The  Wit  of  the  Family, 31 

The  Naturalist,  35 

The  Old  Apple  Tree, 38 

The  Old  Deacon, 43 

Trifles, 51 

The  Destiny  of  Poetry, 61 

The  Gold  Pen, 67 

The  Hunter  Stevens  and  his  Dog, 81 

The  Poet's  Death, 104 

The  Old  and  the  New, 106 

The  Slanderer, 107 

The  Wedding, 113 

The  Dream, 123 

The  Painter  and  the  Madonna, 127 

The  Utilitarian, '. ..'  151 

The  Wife, 162 

The  Changes  of  Life, 163 

True  Philosophy, 176 

Thamyris, 177 

The  Story  of  Napoleon, 181 

The  Bereaved  Sister, 196 

The  Broken  Vow, 203 

The  Path  to  Happiness, 208 

The  Oak  and  the  Willow, 210 

Uncle  Zim  and  Deacon  Pettibone, 133 

"Woman, 212 

Yearnings  of  the  Spirit, 174 


EMBELLISHMENTS. 

STEEL   ENGRAVINGS. 

The  Sisters, 2 

Rip  Van  Winkle, 42 

The  Idle  Servant, 76 

The  Wedding, ,., 110 

Captain  Smith  and  Pocahontas, 146 

Napoleon's  Farewell  with  his  Son, 180 

STEEL    ENGRAVINGS    COLORED. 

European  Globe  Flower  and  Livid  and  Black  Hellebore, 3 

Garden  Tulip, 11 


}i  i)  L  ±. 


Page 

A  Lawyer's  Opinion  of  Xaw 18 

A  Sea  Voyage— by  D.  S.  M 56 

A  Lock  of  Hair— by  S.  C.  R , 76 

A  Wintry  Landscape — by  Mrs.  L.  G..  Abell , , .  202 

Birthplace 20 

Be  Faithfal— by  Albert  Todd 174 

Chance   Rescue,  or  the  Ocean  Brave — by  Mrs.  E.  D.  Rayraond 51 

Charity 173 

Cultivation  of  Taste — by  Mrs.  A.  E.  Gillett "...*!!  216 

Domestic  Happiness 144 

Dies  Ire — by  Horace  Dresser.  Esq ». 161 

Derelict  Pulpit — by  Horace  Dresser,  Esq 141 

Evelyn  Richmond,  or  the  Disappointed  Bride 9 

Eventide — by  Horace  Dresser,  Esq 67 

Favorite  Means  of  Committing  Suicide 86 

Friends — by  Albert  Todd , m 

Female  Education — by  Nelson  Sizer 130 

Friendly  Suggestions — by  Dr.  J.  H,  Hanaford 176 

George  Sinclair,  or  the  Student's  Noble  Resolve — by  Mrs.  J.  H. 

Hanaford 68 

Home 121 

I  Live  to  Die — by  Lilla  Linwood 17 

I  Die  to  Live — by     do.      do 17 

Immortality  of  Influence — by  Rev.  James  Hoyt 50 

Lament 110 

Light  and  Daguerreotype — by  C .  Wingate 164 

Learn  to  Sing— by  Rev.  W.  C.  Whitcomb 213 

Maternal  Influence — by  J.  B.  Hoag 45 

Mem.ories  of  Childhood— by  Mrs.  R.  M.  Conklin 146 

S'athan  and  Solomon 19 

yNineveh — by  C.  Wingate 179 

Old  Year's  Realities  and  New  Year's  Anticipations— by  Mrs,  Hanaford..  193 


Vm  INDEX. 

PAGE 

Revolutionan'  Sketch — by  ^Irs.  Williams 57 

Richard  Colhu-  Dc  Lion  aiul  Berengaria,  Princess  of  Navarre — by 

llcv.  Isaac  M.  Sherman 81 

Sonnets — Niasrara — by  Horace  Dresser,  Esq 35 

Scene  on  the  Hudson 117 

San  Francisco — by  Rev.  Isaac  M.  Sherman,  D.  D 153 

Sacramento  City 157 

Summer  Sketch — by  Horace  Dresser,  Esq 175 

The  Cousins  ;  or,  Be  ye  not  unequally  yoked  together 21 

The  Creditor— by  Mrs.  J.  H.  Hanaford 27 

The  Gospel  as  an  Element  of  Progress 34 

Truth— by  S.  A.  Andrews 36 

The  Heart's  Idol— bv  Mr.s.  J.  H.  Hanaford 87 

The  Student— by  J.  R.  Higgins 95 

The  Glad  Thanksgiving  Day— by  Mrs.  J.  H.  Hanaford 97 

The  Thinker— by  F.  W.  S 105 

To  my  Mother  on  her  Eightj'-Fourth  Birth  Day— by  Mrs.  M.  E.  Davis..  107 

The  Journeying  of  the  Wind — by  Lilla  Linwood 108 

The  Fairy's  Advice,  or  Amelia's  Christmas  Gift — by  Mrs.  Hanaford 123 

To  my  Flute— by  William  B.  Hovey 129 

The  Mother's  Influence— by  N.  W 147 

Time's  Soliloquy— by  Orrin  P.  Allen 169 

The  Hour  of  Prayer — by  Miss  Mary  A.  Malin 173 

The  Young  Bride 189 

Twilight  Musings— by  J.  B.  Hoag 209 

To  the  Ambitious— by  J.  B.  Hoag 210 

Temperance — by  W.  B.  Hovey 216 

The  ^oliau  Harp— by  M.  A,  A.  Phinney 218 

Washington  and  Napoleon :  a  Comparison — ^by  G.  L.  Cranmer 15 

Worth  Heeding ,  o 18 

Wonders  of  the  Microscope — by  C.  Wingate 203 


EMBELLISHMENTS. 

STEEL    ENGRAVINGS. 

The  Cousins 6 

lone 42 

The  Dream 80 

View  near  Anthony's  Nose,  Hudson  Highlands 114 

San  Francisco 152 

The  Young  Bride 188 

STEEL   ENGRAVINGS    COLORED. 

Proven's  Rose 7 

Caliopse 115 

MUSIC. 

Witliin  this  Humble  Dwelling , 40 

Morning  Song 184 


ROMANCE     OF    ANCIENT    HISTOBY. 


A     STORY     OF      ATHENAIS. 


The  Grecian  sa^e,  Leontius,  was  lying  on  bis  couch,  calmly 
awaiting  the  approach  of  death.  His  daughter,  the  beautiful 
Athenais,  was  bending  over  him,  and  bathing  his  brow  Avitn  her 
tears.  The  fadins;  beams  of  the  setting  sun  illumined  the  apart^ 
ment,  and  cast  over  the  cheek  of  the  dying  man,  a  glow  that 
mocked  the  hue  of  health.  As  the  weeping  Athenais  beheld 
this  rosy  flush,  she  hushed  her  voice  of  mourning,  and,  for  an 
instant,  a  ray  of  hope  irradiated  her  brow,  and  shone  amid  her 
tears  as  a  transient  sunbeam  sometimes  gilds  a  stormy  cloud, 
and  sparkles  amid  the  falling  rain.  Leontius  beheld  the  change, 
and  said  in  faint  but  tranquil  tones  : 

«  Deceive  not  thvself,  my  dear  Athenais,  with  vam  illusive 
hopes— they  will  but  cheat  thee  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness 
of  sorrow,  and  render  the  hour  of  grief,  that  must  come,  more 
painful  to  endure.     Learn  to  look  calmly  upon   the   trial  that 
awaits  thee,  and  bear  with  becoming  fortitude,  the  loss  thou  art 
about  to  sustain.     I  feel  that  I  must  die.     Even  now  the  lamp 
of  hfe  burns  dimly  in  its  socket,  and  ere  long  it  will  be  quenched 
for  ever.     -Weep  not  so  bitterly,  my  child,  at  this  decree  of  the 
ffods      They  are  wise-they  are  merciful.     They  have  granted 
me  a  lono-  sojourn  on  the  earth,  and  they  are  now  conducting 
me  peacefully  and  pleasantly  to  repose.     Murmur  not,  then,  at 
their  dispensations,  but  bow  submissively  to  their  will,  and  pray 
for  aid  to  strengthen  thy  spirit  in  the  coming  season  of  aftuc- 

tion."  , 

But  Athenais  renewed  her  lamentations,  and  her  tears  flowed 

more  freely  as  she  listened  to  her  father's  words.  Grief  had 
rained  the  mastery  over  her  spirit,  and  for  a  time  it  ruled  with 
despotic  sway.  Calmly  Leontius  waited  till  the  violence  of  the 
storm  had  passed,  and  in  the  lull  of  those  passionate  lamenta- 
tions, he  said  :  -  I   crrieve  to  see,  my  child,  that  all  the  lessons 


14  ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT   HISTCRY. 

of  wisdom  and  virtue  which  I  have  taught  thee,  have  fmUd  to 
lift  thy  mind  to  that  elevation  which  I  had  hoped  it  would 
attain.  But  I  despair  not  that  thy  soul  will  one  day  be  .is  lofty 
and  heroic  as  my  fondest  wish  could  desire.  Thou  art  young, 
and  thy  heart  is  yet  tender  enough  to  take  a  deep  impression 
from  every  passing  touch.  Let  but  a  few  more  years  roll  away, 
and  the  breath  of  sorrow,  like  the  beam  of  joy,  will  pass  almost 
unheeded  over  thy  spirit's  fount  of  feeling,  and  wake  only  a 
ripple  on  its  surface.  Thus  would  I  have  it.  And  now,  my 
dear  Athenais,  I  have  but  a  few  more  moments  to  linger,  and  I 
entreat  you  to  listen  to  the  voice  that  will  soon  be  so  silent  for- 
ever. Hereafter  it  might  be  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  re- 
flect that  you  had  not  heeded  my  dying  words." 

This  admonition  had  the  desired  effect — the  young  mourner 
dried  her  tears — lifted  her  beautiful  head,  and  with  a  forced 
calmness  and  composure,  listened  to  his  words : 

"  In  leaving  thee,  my  child,  to  the  evils  of  life,  and  the  temp- 
tations of  the  world,  I  do  not  leave  thee  w^ithout  a  protector, 
for  thy  own  excellent  heart  will  be  a  guardian  more  vigilaut  and 
more  useful  than  the  wisest  I  could  appoint — and  in  bequeath- 
ing my  patrimony  almost  entirely  to  thy  two  brothers,  I  do  thee 
no  act  of  injustice,  for  thy  youth  and  loveliness,  and  above  all, 
thy  many  virtues,  constitute  a  dowry  that  queens  might  envy. 
What  were -riches  to  one  like  thee?  What  were  stores  of 
sparkling  gems,  and  heaps  of  glittering  gold  ?  Hast  thou  not 
a  beauty  whose  splendor  can  rival  the  diamond's  light,  and 
treasures  of  the  mind  whose  value  is  above  all  price  ?  These 
last,  my  daughter,  are  a  legacy  which  none  can  take  away. 
Time,  who  will  steal  thy  youthful  charms,  cannot  deprive  thet 
of  thos.e  unftiding  treasures.  They  are  exhaustless  as  the  earth, 
and  enduring  asjife.  Thou  art  nobly  portioned,  and  I  die  happji 
in  the  belief  of  thy  w^elfare." 

The  philosopher  paused — a  solemn  silence  reigned  in  tht 
apartment,  and  it  seemed  that  death  was  hover'mg  near.  Faint 
and  fainter  grew  the  light  of  departing  day — dim  and  dimmer 
burned  the  lamp  of  expiring  life.  Low^  as  the  softest  whisper 
of  the  leaves  when  stirred  by  the  breath  of  spring,  ro«e  once 
more  the  voice  of  the  dying  sage  : 

"  M}"  daughter,  see  you  not  yon  lingering  radiance  in  the 
west — how  slowly  and  majestically  it  gives  place  to  the  foot- 


ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY.  15 

steps  of  nigbt.  How  softly  and  sweetly  the  last  beam  fades 
away,  and  sinks  to  rest  ?  Thus  does  a  philosopher  bid  farewell 
to  earth.  Thus  calmly  and  peacefully  sink  to  his  last  repose. 
May  such,  dear  Athenais,  when  thy  sojourn  here  is  ended,  bo 
thy  closing  hour.  Blessings  bo  with  thee  now  and  forever. 
Farewell !" 

So  gently  and  so  tranquilly  had  he  sunk  into  the  arms  of 
death,  that  the  bereaved  Alhenais  dared  not  disturb,  with  the 
voice  of  her  sorrow,  the  silent  and  solemn  scene.  For  many 
moments  she  sat  tearless,  motionless — almost  breathless,  gazing 
reverently  upon  the  hushed  and  holy  features  of  the  departed. 
But  as  soon  as  the  awe  which  that  fearful  visitor,  Death,  in- 
spires in  every  one,  who,  for  the  first  time  marks  his  approach, 
had  passed  away,  the  young  mourner  gave  full  vent  to  her 
grief,  and  bending  her  blooming  cheek  to  that  marble  brow,  she 
wept  with  the  bitterness  of  a  desolate  spirit. 

Her  father  had  been  so  dear — so  immeasurably  dear  to  her 
heart,  that  in  losing  him,  she  fancied  she  had  lost  all  that  could 
render  life  endurable.  Her  mother  had  been  dead  many  years, 
and  Leontius  had  supplied  the  place  of  both  parents.  It  was 
his  eye  that  had  watched  over  her  in  the  troublous  days  of 
infancy,  and  his  voice  that  had  gladdened,  with  words  of  praise, 
the  happy  years  of  childhood.  In  the  pleasant  spring-time  of 
youth  he  had  been  ever  near  to  guide  and  protect — to  lead  her 
steps  in  the  path  of  virtue,  and  her  mind  to  the  fount  of  know- 
ledge. He  had  been  parent,  companion,  friend,  and  preceptor, 
and  Athenais  had  loved  as  never  child  loved  before.  It  is  a  sad 
thing,  the  first  deep  grief  of  a  young,  fond  heart.  As  a  deso- 
lating storm  would  bruise  and  blight  the  gentle  tenants  of  a 
flower-garden,  so  does  that  tempest  of  the  soul  destroy  its  ten- 
der blossoms  of  feeling,  and  lay  waste  its  beautiful  buds  of  hope. 
But  although  terrible  in  its  effectsj  it  is  transient  in  duration, 
and  passes  away  like  the  cloud  from  a  summer  sky.  Youthful 
emotions  are  so  buoyant  and  elastic,  that  they  spring  back 
to  their  former  position  as  soon  as  the  pressure  of  misfortune  is 
removed.  It  was  thus  with  Athenais.  When  the  first  violence 
of  her  grief  had  passed  away,  she  could  reflect  calmly  upon  her 
bereavement,  and  turn  to  the  memory  of  her  lost  parent  as  to 
something  holy  and  dear.  She  would  sit  for  hours  alone,  recdl- 
ing  his  every  look  and  tone,  and  dwelling  fondly  upon  his  words 


16  ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT   HISTORY. 

of  love.  At  such  times  she  would  remember  all  his  precepts, 
and  breathe  a  prayer  that  they  might  guide  her  safely  through 
the  perilous  path  of  life. 

With  a  spirit  chastened  by  sorrow,  she  sought  the  home  of 
her  brothers.  They  had  lived  apart  from  her  since  the  days  of 
childhood,  and  they  had  none  of  those  gentle  and  pleasant  memo- 
ries which  linger  so  sweetly  around  the  hearts  of  those  who 
have  been  reared  in  the  genial  atmosphere  of  home.  They  re- 
ceived their  sister  as  a  stranger,  and  greeted  her  with  the  chill- 
ing words  of  unklndness.  They  feared  she  would  become  a 
dependant  on  their  bounty,  and  consume  a  portion  of  the  patri- 
mony which  they  had  so  recently  inherited.  How  strange  a 
passion  is  avarice — how  it  contracts  every  lofty  principle  of  the 
mind,  and  chills  every  warm  emotion  of  the  heart.  How  it  de- 
grades every  noble  sentiment  of  humanity  !  Leontius  had  with- 
held his  w^orldly  riches  from  his  daughter,  in  order  to  bestow 
all  upon  his  sons,  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  they  would  gladly 
share  the  dowry  with  their  only  sister.  But  the  spirit  of  avar- 
ice had  entered  their  hearts,  and  they  grudged  the  gentle  Athen- 
ais  a  home.  They  frowned  upon  her  when  she  asked  their 
protection,  and  unwillingly  granted  the  shelter  they  were 
ashamed  to  refuse.  She  would  have  turned  away  from  such 
unnatural  kindred,  to  seek  a  home  among  strangers,  but  she 
had  been  reared  in  retirement,  and  knew  nothing  of  life  save 
what  she  had  learned  from  study,  and  she  dared  not  go  forth 
into  the  w^orld  friendless  and  alone.  Thus,  compelled  to 
accept  the  boon  so  ungraciously  granted,  she  became  an 
unwelcome  dweller  with  her  inhospitable  brothers.  But 
though  with  them,  she  was  not  one  of  their  family,  for  their  fire- 
sides never  shed  a  cheering  radiance  for  her,  and  their  tidtisehold 
gods  never  smiled  upon  her  spirit.  She  was  desolate  and  un- 
happy— the  memory  of  her  father's  love  and  kindness  was  ever 
Hngering  around  her  heart,  making  her  altered  situation  more 
sad  and  more  difficult  to  endure. 

Still,  in  the  treasures  of  the  mind,  those  which  her  father  had 
deemed  so  rich  a  legacy,  she  found  a  resource  and  shield  from, 
despair.  There  were  moments  when  she  could  steal  from  the 
troublous  cares  that  oppressed  her,  and  forget,  in  study,  and 
the  intellectual  pursuits  she  loved,  the  many  ills  to  which  she 
was  subjected.     But  even  these  brief  intervals  of  consolation 


ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY.  17 

■were  denied,  and  the  last  flower  that  bloomed  11  her  darkened 
pathway,  seemed  about  to  perish. 

A  Eoman  of  high  birth,  named  Marulles,  who  saw  Athenais 
at  the  house  of  her  brothers,  became  charmed  with  her  beauty. 
He  numbered  more  than  twice  her  years,  and  was  a  man  of 
corrupt  character.     He  had  led   a  dissolute  life,  and  wandered 
through  the  garden  of  Pleasure,  until   there  seemed   not  a  soli- 
tary flower  rare  and  beautiful   enough   to  please  his  satiated 
fancy.     Surfeited  with   pernicious  sweets,  and  almost  weary  of 
the  life  that  could  afford  him  no  new  enjoyment,  he  continually 
sighed  for  some  novelty  to  awaken  the  sluggish  emotions  of  his 
heart.     That  novelty  he  seemed  now  to  have  found  in  Athenais. 
Her  beautv  at   first  attracted  his  admiration,  but  it  was  her 
purity  of  thought  and  modesty  of  demeanor  that  fixed  his  atten- 
tion, and  inspired  a  love  such  as  he  had  never  known  before. 
He  looked  upon  her  as  a  treasure  which  he  had  long  sought  in 
vain,  and  which  he  was  at  last  blessed  with  the  hope  of  obtain- 
ing.    He  resolved  to  make  her  his  wife,  and  accordingly  sought 
an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  love.    He  blindly  imagined  that 
his  birth  and  wealth  would  insure  success,  forgetting  that  he 
possessed  not  a  single  quality  that  could  win  the  affection  of  a 
pure  young  heart.     Athenais^  at  first,  gently  but  firmly  refused 
his  offers,  but  when  he  repeated  them  again  and  again,  she  be- 
came displeased  with  his   perseverance,  and  repelled  him  with 
disdain.     This  seemed  rather  to  increase  than  diminish  his  ad- 
miration, and  he  determined  to  obtain  her  at  any  sacrifice.     He 
made  known  his  wishes  to  the  brothers,  and  besought  their  aid 
Then  w^as  Athenais  constantly  persecuted  with  entreaties  to 
become  the  wife  of  Marulles.     Commands  followed  entreaties, 
and  threats  followed  commands,  until  she  had  scarce  a  moment's 
peace.     The  brothers,  seeing  a  chance  of  escaping  the  duty  of 
maintaining  her,  whom  they  regarded  as  an  incumbrance,  were 
firm  in  their  resolve  to  make  her   accept  the  offer,  that  they 
feigned   to   consider  advantageous   and  desirable.     They  em- 
braced every  opportunity  to  throw  Athenais  into  the  now  hated 
company  of  her  admirer — they  made  her  home  more  wretched 
than  ever,  they  wounded  her  heart  by  the  most  unkind  and  un- 
feeling words;  in  short  they  made  use  of  every  means  that 
cruelty  could  suggest,  to  force  her  into  a  compliance  with  their 
wishes.     Weary  of  continual  persecution,  and  overcome  by  de- 


18  ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY. 

spondency  and  grief,  tho  unhappy  Athenais  knew  not  what 
course  to  pursue.  Sometimes  she  was  almost  tempted  t(  yield 
to  the  sad  fate  that  thi'eatened  her,  and  then,  the  thoughts  of 
sacrificing  herself  where  she  felt  only  dislike,  and  of  being  irre- 
vocabiy  united  to  age  and  vice,  made  her  pure  heart  shudder 
with  dread.  At  length  she  asked  and  obtained  the  boon  of 
three  days  respite  from  solicitations,  during  which  time  she  was 
not  to  be  persecuted  with  threats  or  entreaties,  or  even  spoken 
to  on  the  subject  that  gave  her  so  much  pain.  This  favor  was 
granted,  on  condition  that  she  would  spend  the  time  in  endea- 
voring to  think  more  favorably  of  Marulles,  and  in  learning  to 
look  upon  a  union  with  him  as  an  event  which  she  could  not 
hope  to  avoid. 

Those  three  days  seemed,  to  Athenais,  like  a  short  respite 
granted  to  a  condemned  criminal.  At  one  moment  a  joyous 
sense  of  freedom  would  thrill  her  heart,  and  then  a  dark  re- 
membrance immediately  usurp  its  place.  Now  a  ray  of  hope 
would  shoot  athwart  her  spirit,  and  then  the  shadows  of  fear 
instantly  dispelled  the  light.  Oh,  how  she  longed  for  her  fath- 
er's counsel  and  advice,  to  ouide  her  through  the  oloom  that 
surrounded  her  path.  J3ut  his  voice  was  silent  in  the  grave, 
and  there  was  none  to  whom  she  could  turn  for  consolation. 

The  last  day  of  the  three  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Athen- 
ais had  vainly  striven  to  fortify  her  mind  to  meet  the  fate  she 
dreaded  with  soniething  like  a  spirit  of  resignation.  With  a 
heavy  heart  she  went  to  the  window  of  her  apartment,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  setting  sun.  As  its  last  beams  faded  in  the 
west,  she  was  forcibly  reminded  of  her  father's  dying  hour,  and  a 
thrilling  feeling  of  mingled  awe  and  pleasure  crept  over  her  mind, 
as  she  fancied  his  spirit  miijht  be  hoverins:  near.  Sinkins;  on  her 
knees,  and  lifting  her  tearful  ey^s  to  Heavei,  she  breathed  an 
audible  prayer : 

"  Oh,  thou  dear  departed,  if  thou  canst  leave  the  company  of 
the  immortal  gods,  to  visit  once  more  the  scene  of  thy  former 
life,  look  down,  I  pray  thee,  on  thine  unhappy  child,  and  guide 
her  safely  through  the  ]^;crils  that  surround.  The  lessons  of 
virtue  which  thou  imparted,  have  failed  to  insure  the  promised 
happiness,  and  the  rich  storo  of  wisdom  which  thou  bequeathed, 
has  not  even  purchased  the  boon  ■>f  content.  Oh,  my  father, 
without  thee,  thy  instructions  are  nothing.  I  atn  like  a  barque 
moving  unguided  over  the  waters,  and  spe<3ding  to  destruction. 


ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY.  f9 

Life  that  was  sweet  while  shared  with  thee,  is  now  a  burthen 
too  wearii3ome  to  bear,  and  I  pray  thee,  shade  of  the  departed, 
beseech  the  merciful  gods  to  take  me  from  the  earth,  and  give 
me  a  home  with  them  and  thee." 

This  invocation,  which  expressed  so  truly  aed  touchingly,  the 
deep  sadness  of  Athenais.  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of 
approaching  steps.  She  looked  up ;  her  female  attendant, 
Marina,  had  entered  the  apartment — fear  and  anxiety  was  pic- 
tured on  her  countenance,  and  Athenais  felt  that  some  new 
trouble  awaited  her.  Eapidly,  and  in  a  low  tone,  Marina  im- 
parted her  information.  She  had,  a  few  moments  before,  over- 
heard a  conversation  between  the  brothers  and  the  admirer  of 
her  mJstress.  By  that,  it  appeared,  Marulles,  fearful  of  losing 
the  prize  he  so  ardently  sought,  had  obtained  from  the  brothers 
permission  to  wed  Athenais  without  further  delay.  Everything 
was  prepared,  and  an  early  hour  of  the  following  morning  was 
the  time  appointed  for  the  ceremony  to  take  place.  Their  vic- 
tim's wishes  were  to  be  no  longer  consulted  ;  she  was  to  be 
forced  to  the  altar,  and  if  she  there  persevered  in  resisting  their 
commands,  she  was  to  be  confined  in  a  gloomy  and  solitary 
apartment,  deprived  of  every  comfort,  and  only  supphed  with 
the  smallest  pittance  to  sustain  hfe.  These  were  the  cruel 
arrangements,  and  as  the  faithful  attendant  disclosed  the  plot, 
she  wept  at  what  she  considered  the  inevitable  fate  of  her  mis- 
tress. 

Athenais  sat  a  few  moments  in  deep  thought,  pondering  upon 
the  inteUigence  she  had  received,  and  revolving  in  her  mind 
what  course  to  pursue.  There  was  not  much  time  for  reflection  ; 
only  that  night  was  left  to  decide  and  to  act.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  would  be  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon,  or  a  captive  in  a  more 
fenr^ul  bondage  s^iP.  At  leno^th  her  resolution  was  taken.  She 
GCciiJedio  steal  aoisoiessly  from  the  house — prcoeed  without 
delay  to  the  seat  of  government,  and  ask  the  aid  of  royal  protec- 
tion against  her  unnatural  kindred.  It  was  not  a  long  journey 
from  her  brothers'  residence  to  the  Imperial  palace,  and  she 
felt  that  her  desperate  fortunes  would  give  her  energy  and 
resolution  to  endure  whatever  fatigue  or  hardship  she  would 
have  to  incur. 

The  Eastern  Empire  was,  at  that  time,  under  the  dominion 


20  ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT   HISTORY. 

of  Pulclieria,  daughter  of  Arcadiiis,  and  granddaughter  cf 
Theodosius  the  Great.  She  was  invested  with  the  sovereign 
power,  during  the  minority  of  her  brother,  the  younger  Theo- 
dosius. Although  possessing  a  high,  proud  spirit,  she  wan 
renowned  for  the  justice  and  benevolence  of  her  character,  and 
Athenais  felt,  as  she  reflected  upon  what  she  was  about  to 
undertake,  that  the  Empress  might  be  awakened  to  womanly 
tenderness  and  pity  for  one  so  desolate  and  unhappy. 

As  soon  as  her  design  was  formed,  she  proceeded  to  put  it 
in  execution.  She  fortunately  escaped  from  the  house  without 
arousing  suspicion,  and,  with  no  companion  but  her  attendant, 
proceeded  on  her  journe}^  In  due  season,  and  without  obstacle 
she  reached  the  palace.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  she  pause 
and  hesitate,  and  think  fearfully  upon  the  ordeal  she  was  about 
to  endure.  She  had  been  reared  in  the  simplest  and  plainest 
manner.  She  was  totally  unacquainted  with  the  forms  and 
rules  of  a  court,  and  dreaded  to  pass  those  lofty  portals  that 
seemed  frowningly  to  forbid  her  entrance.  But  one  thought 
of  her  friendless  situation  called  back  her  courage  and  nerved 
her  to  the  task.  Without  difficulty  she  gained  admittance,  and 
ere  long  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Empress.  Noth- 
ing could  afford  a  better  illustration  of  the  industry  and  simpli- 
city of  the  females  of  that  day,  than  the  sight  which  met  the  eye 
of  Athenais,  as  she  entered  the  stately  apartment.  A  group 
of  maidens  were  seated  round  the  room,  all  engaged  on  works 
of  embroidery,  and  in  their  midst,  portioning  out  their  respective 
tasks,  and  occupying  herself,  from  time  to  time,  with  the  same 
feminine  employment,  was  the  Empress  of  the  East,  the  proud, 
ambitious  woman,  Vv^ho,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  received  the  lofty 
title  of  Augusta,  and  wielded  the  sceptre  with  some  of  the  wis- 
dom, and  much  of  the  spirit  that  characterized  her  illustrious 
progenitor,  Theodosius  the  Great. 

As  soon  as  Athenais  beheld  the  benevolent  features  of  the 
Empress,  her  fears  were  dispelled,  and  advancing  with  graceful 
ease,  she  knelt  at  her  feet.  In  the  kindest  manner  Pulcheria 
raised  the  maiden,  and  bade  her  make  known  her  wishes.  That 
she  might  attract  less  observation,  Athenais  had  arrayed  her 
form  in  a  plain  and  humble  garb — her  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears — her  features  wore  the  languor  of  weariness  and  the  gloom 
of  anxiety,  yet  despite  these  disadvantages,  her  beauty  shone 


ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY.  21 

conspicuous  aud  charmed  the  eyes  of  beholders.     With  a  low 
but  lirm  voice,  she  said  : 

"  Illustrious  Sovereign,  you  see  before  you,  in  the  charactei* 
of  a  suppliant,  an  unhappy,  destitute,  and  desolate  orphan.  If 
one  who  has  no  inheritance  but  Sorrow — no  friend  but  Hope, 
and  no  shelter  but  Heaven,  can  claim  your  pity,  then,  most  gra- 
cious lady,  award  that  pity  to  me.  Driven  by  unnatural  kindred 
from  an  unhappy  home,  and  flying  from  the  persecutions  of  one 
who  would  force  me  into  a  union  whose  ties  are  more  fearful 
than  death,  I  come  to  plead,  with  voice  and  heart,  for  the  boon 
of  your  favor  and  protection.  lam  a  humble  maiden — born, 
reared,  and  educated  in  retirement.  I  know  not  the  language 
of  a  court,  and  if  my  freedom  of  expression  offend  your  ear,  I 
pray  your  Majesty's  pardon  ;  but  listen,  oh  !  deign  to  listen 
kindly  to  my  appeal.  I  know  not  what  words  to  use,  but  I 
feel  that  the  voice  of  Pity  in  your  bosom  will  plead  eloquently 
in  my  behalf  I  am  poor  and  miserable,  but  beneath  my  humble 
garb  beats  a  heart  filled  with  loyal  and  generous  emotions. 
Grant  me  the  boon  I  ask,  oh  1  Sovereign,  and  the  service,  the 
devotion,  I  had  almost  said  worship  of  that  heart,  shall  bo  yours. 
Shield  me  w'ith  your  gracious  power,  from  the  loneliness  and 
sorrow  that  oppress  my  spirit,  and  life  will  be  too  short  to  pay 
the  debt  of  gratitude  I  shall  thus  incur." 

The  voice,  the  words,  the  manner  of  Athenais,  all  had  a  pow- 
erful effect  over  the  Empress.  She  immediately  soothed  the  sup- 
pliant w^ith  words  of  kindness,  and  gave  her  many  assurances 
of  favor  and  protection.  She  ministered  to  her  wants,  and 
sought  by  every  gentle  means  to  make  her  forget  the  ills  which 
she  endured.  Every  passing  moment  added  to  the  interest  she 
had  awakened  in  the  breast  of  Pulcheria,  and  the  latter  at  length 
began  to  indulge  secret  thoughts  of  making  her  the  wife  of  her 
brother. 

Theodosius  was  at  that  period  about  twenty  years  of  age. 
Although  possessing  few  of  the  illustrious  qualities  of  his  grand- 
father, the  elder  Theodosius,  he  was  a  youth  of  virtuous  heart 
and  fine  endowments  of  mind.  His  education  had  been  care- 
fully superintended  by  his  older  and  more  imperial-minded  sis- 
ter, Pulcheria,  and  she  had  also  scrupulously  instructed  him  in 
all  the  graces  and  dignities  of  royalty.  He  was  deeply  imbued 
with  the  sublime  spirit  of  Christianity,  then  fast   dispelling  the 


22  TIOMANCE    OF    ANCIENT   HISTORY. 

errors  of  Paganism  from  the  world,  and  all  his  acts  were  g  aided 
and  governed  by  its  divine  precepts.  His  mildness,  his  benevo- 
lence, and  his  piety,  caused  him  to  be  respected  and  beloved  by 
all  who  surrounded  him. 

A  short  time  after  her  fair  suppliant's  arrival  at  the  palace, 
Pulcheria  sought  an  interview  with  Theodosius.  In  tones  of 
pleasure  she  addressed  him — 

"  My  brother,  I  have  this  day  seen  and  conversed  with  a 
young  Grecian  maiden,  who  is,  in  every  respect,  worthy  to  be 
the  wife  of  the  future  Emperor  of  Eome.  Listen,  while  I  de- 
scribe a  being  such  as  fancy  never  pictured  to  your  mind.  Im- 
agine a  form  of  lofty  stature  and  graceful  proportions,  invested 
with  all  the  charms  of  youth,  yet  merging  into  the  richer  beauty 
of  womanhood  ;  a  brow  white  and  pure  as  the  unsullied  snow- 
flake,  around  which  cluster  locks  of  the  softest  texture  and 
richest  luxuriance  ;  an  eye  that  eloquently  expresses  every  ten- 
der emotion  of  the  soul,  yet  darts  around  such  fires  as  flash 
from  the  noon-day  sun  ;  a  cheek  where  the  first  rose  of  spring 
seems  to  have  nestled  long  and  lovingly,  and  tinted  its  resting- 
place  with  its  own  dehcate  and  beautiful  hue ;  a  mouth  that  ex- 
presses at  once  sweetness  and  intelligence,  whose  voice  is  music, 
and  whose  smile,  hke  the  rainbow  of  peace,  can  charm  away  all 
storms  from  the  heart.  Add  to  all  these  external  graces,  a  mind 
lighted  by  nature  with  the  divine  fire  of  genius,  and  stored  by 
education   with  the  wisdom   and  learnins;  of  a  sagre  ;  a  heart 

C5  CD        I 

where  every  generous  and  kindly  emotion  has  found  a  home  ; 
a  virtue  that  has  been  tried  in  the  fiery  ordeal  of  woe,  and  found 
pure  as  the  shining  ore  that  emerges  from  the  severest  test, 
without  spot  and  without  blemish ;  a  character,  in  short,  my 
brother,  which,  hke  the  sunbeam  of  Heaven,  must  shed  univer- 
sal brightness  and  gladness  around." 

Theodosius  had  listened  with  looks  of  wonderins:  delio:ht,  tc 
his  sister's  glowing  description  of  the  young  Grecian,  and  when 
she  closed,  he  said — 

"  You  have,  indeed,  dear  Pulcheria,  described  a  w^ondrous 
being — such  an  one  as  only  the  brightest  day-dreams  have  ever 
imaged  to  my  soul,  and  my  spirit  pines  to  behold  her.  But  if 
she  is  all  you  so  brightly  picture,  she  is  surely  capable  of  feel- 
ing an  elevated  and  noble  attachment — a  love  founded  on  pure 
and   divine  principles.      Such   a  love  I  have  long  sighed  to 


ROMANCE    01     ANCIENT    HISTORY.  23 


^waU'Ti— such  a  true  and  sincere  affection  have  I  ardently 
wished  to  inspire.  But,  surrounded  by  a  ho^t  of  admiring 
friends  and  followers,  who  applaud  and  flatter,  and  offer  me  the 
servile  homage  of  interested  hearts,  T  still  vainly  seek  and  pine 
for  that  unalloyed  affection  which  all  desire  to  obtain.  The 
attentions,  the  praises,  the  adulations,  which  are  paid  to  my 
rank,  and  not  to  mjseW]  are  distasteful,  and  satisfy  me  not :  as 
the  drooping  flower  thirsts  for  the  dew,  my  soul  thirsts  for  the 
lan.o-uage  of  truth— for  the  words  of  pure  and  sincere  esteem. 
If  I  could  woo  this  young  maiden  as  a  lowly  and  humble  mdi- 
vidual,  might  I  not  win  a  love  that  the  favored  of  fortune  sel- 
dom possess,  and  that  kings  often  sigh  for  in  vain  ?" 

Pulcheria  approves  her  brother's  sentiments,  and  assures  him 
that  his  desire  can  be  gratified.  They  arrange  that  he  is  to 
gaze  unseen  upon  the  fair  stranger,  and  then,  unknown,  to  seek 
to  win  her  love.  Concealed  behind  the  drapery  in  his  sister's 
apartment,  he  awaits  the  entrance  of  Athenais,  who  has  been 
summoned  to  the  presence  of  Pulcheria.  With  what  delight  he 
beholds  her  radiant  face,  and  listens  to  her  silvery  voice  !  His 
ardent  imagination  finds  the  original  fairer,  if  possible,  than  the 
picture  his  sister  had  so  vividly  drawn,  and  his  youthful  heart 
beats  rapidly  beneath  the  touch  of  Love.  He  can  scarcely 
await  the  fitting  season  for  the  interview,  and  longs  impatiently 
for  the  appointed  hour. 

As  he  led  a  quiet  and  secluded  life,  it  was  easy  for  Theodo 
sius  to  practice  the  innocent  deception  which  he  had  planned, 
and  in  a  humble  garb  he  was  introduced  to  Athenais  as  one  of 
the  tutors  of  the  young  Emperor.  Pulcheria  daily  devised  ex- 
cuses for  an  interview  between  the  young  pair,  and  by  that 
means  the  lover  had  the  necessary  opportunities  to  carry  on  his 
plan.  Every  one  who  approached  Athenais  was  instructed  in 
the  secret,  and  commanded  not  to  divulge  it,  thus  she  had  not 
the  most  remote  suspicion  of  the  truth.  Feeling  none  of  the 
timidity  which  would  have  characterized  her  intercourse  with 
him,  had  she  dreamed  of  his  rank,  and  grateful  for  his  respect- 
ful attention,  Athenais  soon  extended  to  the  young  tutor  her 
confidence  and  regard.  It  was  not  long  ere  a  warmer  sentiment 
sprung  up  in  her  heart,  and  lent  a  new  charm  to  hc^r  life.  Then, 
indeed,  all  things  wore  a  smiling  aspect,  and  time  sped  by  on 
the  wings  of  joy. 


24  ROMANCE   OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY. 

Athenais  became  daily  a  greater  favorite  with  the  Empress, 
pjid  receiving  from  her  constantly  the  most  unequivocal  marks 
of  regard,  she  ceased  to  feel  her  dependent  situation,  and  ban- 
ished from  her  mind  all  thoughts  of  care.  She  was  grateful 
and  happy.  Her  heart,  like  a  summer-bird,  warbled  forth  in- 
cessantly, the  music  of  dehght.  She  was  surrounded  by  every 
comfort  and  luxury  of  life  ;  she  loved  and  was  beloved  !  "What  a 
contrast  with  her  former  friendless  condition.  "With  what  happy 
dreams  and  anticipations  she  looked  forward  to  the  future.  One 
day,  while  indulging  this  pleasant  frame  of  mind,  she  received  a 
message  from  the  Empress,  bidding  her  to  an  interview.  With 
a  hght  step  and  a  lighter  heart  she  entered  the  presence  of  her 
benefactor. 

"  Well,  my  bird  of  beauty,"  said  Pulcheria,  "  art  thou  not 
happy  in  thy  new  bower  ?" 

The  maiden's  face  was  radiant  with  the  sunshine  of  the  soul, 
as  she  replied : 

"  Not  even  in  the  days  of  innocent  childhood,  when  I  wan- 
dered by  the  shores  of  my  own  blue  sea,  or  decked  my  brow 
with  the  flowers  of  my  own  dear  native  plains,  did  my  heart 
revel  more  gladly  in  the  joyous  sense  of  existence.  I  am  no 
longer  a  friendless,  houseless  exile ;  for  thou,  dear  lady,  hast 
supplied  the  place  of  country,  kindred,  and  home.  What  can 
I  do  to  serve  thee  !" 

"  Listen,  my  dear  Athenais  ;  have  I  not  in  all  things  studied 
thy  comfort  ?  Have  I  not  given  thee  a  home  that  the  greatest 
might  envy,  and  clothed  thee  in  raiment  that  queens  might 
wear  ?  Have  I  not  bestowed  attendants  to  obey  thy  slightest 
bidding,  and  surrounded  thee  with  luxuries  that  only  the  noble 
can  gain  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  Sovereign,  you  have  done  all  this  and  more.  You 
have  wiped  the  tear  of  woe  from  my  eyes,  and  plucked  the 
arrow  of  grief  from  my  heart.  You  have  soothed  my  wounded 
spirit  with  the  voice  of  consolation,  and  whispered  peace  when 
despair  was  at  hand.  You  have  converted  fear  into  hope,  and 
regret  into  joy.  You  have  awakened  love  in  the  heart  where 
sorrow  before  reigned  supreme,  and  made  the  life  that  was  fast 
becoming  a  burthen  a  blessing  and  a  delight.  All  this  you  have 
done,  dear  lady,  and  now  what  can  I  do  to  testify  my  gratitude  ? 
Name  but  the  price,  and  though  it  were  life  itself — the  very  life 
you  have  so  cheered — it  shall  be  sacrificed  for  your  good." 


ROMANCE    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY.  05 

"I  want  no  sacrifices,  Athenais;  I  am  fully  rewarded  by  see- 
ing you  happy,  and  to  show  my  sense  of  your  gratitude,  I  am 
about  to  confer  a  favo"  greater  than  any  you  have  yet  received. 
I  am  about  to  give  you  in  marriage  to  m.y  imperial  brother,  the 
young  Emperor  of  the  East." 

As  if  a  mighty  spell  had  suddenly  converted  the  maiden  into 
stone,  she  stood,  pale,  speechless,  motionless,  her  hands  clasped, 
her  head  bent  forward,  her  eye  fixed  despairingly  upon  the 
Empress,  and  her  whole  appearance  indicative  of  the  most  in- 
tense amazement.     At  length  she  spoke  : 

"  I  pray  thee,  dear  lady,  unsay  those  fearful  words.  Mock 
not  my  misfortunes  with  such  an  offer.  I  am  too  humble  and 
too  unworthy  to  share  the  splendid  destiny  of  thy  brother. 
Choose  him  a  bride  more  suited  to  his  birth,  and  more  befittino- 
his  exalted  station." 

"Not  so,  Athenais — thy  beauty,  thy  virtue,  thy  learning, 
make  thee  his  equal,  and  render  thee,  in  all  respects,  worthy  to 
be  a  monarch's  consort.  I  have  willed  it,  and  thou  must  be  his 
bride." 

Then  an  expression  of  the  deepest  sorrow  passed  over  the 
features  of  the  maiden — she  went  forward  and  bent  lowly  at  the 
feet  of  the  Empress.  "  Lady,  I  entreat  thy  forgiveness,  but  I 
cannot  obey  the  bidding.  My  heart  is  already  united  to 
another." 

Pulcheria  received  this  announcement  with  the  greatest  ap- 
parent displeasure.  She  reproached  Athenais  for  her  ingrati- 
tude, and  threatened  her  with  punishment  and  persecution,  if 
she  did  not  instantly  renounce  her  love.  Finding  reproaches 
and  threats  alike  powerless  to  call  forth  this  renunciation,  she 
tried  other  means.  She  described  her  brother,  handsome,  wise 
valiant,  and  noble.  She  represented  the  greatness,  the  pomp, 
the  power  his  consort  would  enjoy — the  splendors  that  would 
surround  her,  the  luxuries  that  would  minister  to  her  comfort, 
and  pictured  all  the  charms  of  a  regal  station,  in  their  most  fas- 
cinating colors.  But  to  all  these  temptations  Athenais  seemed 
insensible,  and  when  Pulcheria  had  finished,  she  rose  from  her 
humble  position,  dried  her  tears,  and  with  a  look  of  dignity  and 
a  voice  that  trembled,  said — 

"  Banish  me  from  your  presence — send  me  forth  to  the  world 
friendless  and  miserable,  as  when  I  sought  your  protection — 


OQ  ROMANCE    OF   ANCIENT    HISTORY. 

torture  my  spirit  with  cruel  threats  and  reproaches — kill  me,  if 
you  will,  but  do  not,  dear  lady,  force  me  to  renounce  my  love. 
It  were  sacrilege  to  tear  away  the  image  that  lives  in  my  heart, 
and  seek  to  place  another  in  its  shrine.  Here,  in  thy  palace,  I 
met  a  j^outh — humble,  homeless,  friendless,  as  myself.  The 
bond  of  sympathy  united  us.  He  spoke  kindly  to  cars  that  had 
long  been  accustomed  to  the  words  and  tones  of  harshness. 
What  w^onder  that  in  those  ears  his  voice  became  a  music 
sweeter  than  all  other  ?  What  wonder  that,  when  he  breathed 
the  accents  of  love,  my  soul  responded  in  a  kindred  strain  ? 
What  wonder  that,  when  he  asked  my  affection,  it  was  given 
him  freely  and  forever  ?  AVith  such  feelings,  oh  !  Sovereign 
lady,  can  you  ask  me  to  wed  your  imperial  brother  ?  No  ;  that 
union  were  misery  to  us  both.  AVhat  is  marriage  without  affec- 
tion, but  a  bondage  of  the  most  sad  and  insupportable  kind  ? — 
a  state  of  servitude  that  trammels  not  only  the  body,  but  the 
mind,  and  destroys  even  the  freedom  of  thought.  You  tell  me 
of  the  wealth,  the  splendors,  the  honors  I  should  enjoy;  oh  ! 
these  w^ould  but  gild  the  gaUing  chains,  and  render  them  heavier 
Btill.  Think  not,  dear  lady,  I  am  insensible  to  your  kindness, 
for  while  my  heart  continues  to  beat,  it  will  cherish  with  fervent 
gratitude  the  memory  of  your  favors  ;  but  the  very  evil  that  led 
me  to  supplicate  your  bounty,  will  drive  me  again  from  your 
presence,  an  outcast  alike  from  your  home  and  heart." 

A  flood  of  passionate  tears  prevented  the  utterance  of  Athen- 
ais,  and  she  could  say  no  more.  Theodosius,  who  had  been 
concealed  in  the  apartment,  during  the  interview  between  his 
sister  and  the  maiden,  drank  in  every  w^ord  with  eager  ear  and 
delighted  soul.  As  soon  as  Athenais  was  silent,  he  emerged 
from  his  place  of  concealment  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Here  let  me  kneel,"  he  said  in  impassioned  tones,  ''  here  let 
me  kneel,  and  pour  forth  my  gratitude  and  my  love.  Know, 
excellent  Athenais,  that  thy  angel-affection  is  given  not  to  the 
humble  tutor,  but  to  Theodosius  himself,  and  lofty  as  is  his 
birth,  exalted  as  is  his  station,  he  feels  that  he  is  scarce  worthy 
of  the  treasure  he  has  obtained.  Porgive,  dear  maiden,  the 
stratagem  I  used  to  gain  thy  heart,  and  believe  me,  when  I  say, 
my  future  life  shall  be  a  study  to  deserve  the  precious  boon." 

Pulcheria  shared  the  happiness  of  her  brother,  and  Athenais, 
bewildered,  yet  blest,  testified,  in  smiles,  and  tears,  and  wonder- 
mg  looks,  her  pleasure  and  surprise.- 


FOR   AN    ALBUM.  27 

The  nuptials  were  soon  after  celebrated  with  regal  pomp, 
amid  the  joyous  acclamations  of  the  people  ;  and  thus  the  world 
beheld,  what  seemed  more  like  a  tale  of  fiction  than  reality,  a 
humble  maiden  elevated,  by  her  virtues,  to  the  lofty  honors  of 
the  Imperial  throne. 


LORD  STANHOPE  TO  LADY  SHIRLEY, 

IM  APOLOGY  FOR  AN  EXCESSIVELY  LATE  CALL< 


Too  late  I  staid — forgive  the  crime — 
Uuheedecl  flew  the  hours  ; 

For  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  time, 
That  only  treads  on  flowers. 

What  eye  with  clear  accomit  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  the  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  1 

Or  who  to  sober  measurement, 
Time's  happy  fleetness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  his  wings  % 


FOR   AN  ALBUM. 

I  saw  the  morning's  golden  beam 
Lie  bright  upon  a  passing  stream  : 
I  saw  at  eve — 'twas  sparkling  yet, 
And  pure  as  when  at  first  they  met ; 
And  thus  the  joys  'that  gaily  now 
Give  beauty  to  thy  snowy  brow, 
Still  may  they  o'er  thy  life- tide  shine, 
And  gild  thy  spirit's  last  decline. 


TRANSIENT    JOYS. 


I  saw  a  bright-eyed,  laughing  child,  reach  upon  tiptoe  for  a 
rose  that  grew  upon  the  topmost  branch  of  a  tall  bush. 

After  many  an  ineffectual  struggle,  she  at  last  attained  the 
prize  ;  and  in  an  ecstac}^,  admiring  the  soft  petal,  and  enjoying 
its  sweet  perfume,  she  skipped  away  to  communicate  her  plea- 
sure to  her  companions.  I  saw  her  an  hour  after,  and  sorrow 
now  clouded  that  once  happy  countenance;  the  tear  of  disap- 
pointment stood  in  her  eye  ;  she  was  gazing  on  the  rose,  but  its 
leaves  were  fiided  and  drooping,  its  fragrance  had  fled  away 
in  the  air,  and  its  beautv  szone  forever  ! 

We  stood  upon  the  porch  of  a  friend,  looking  out  with  admir- 
ing eyes  on  nature's  lovely  velvet,  that  overspread  the  ample 
lawn,  and  suddenly  there  came  bounding  over  the  fence  a  fawn 
whose  white  spots  still  lingered  on  its  yellow  coat.  We  won- 
dered how  the  timid  creature  dared  to  venture  near  the  habita- 
tion of  man,  its  foe.  But  in  another  moment  we  saw  the  object 
which  had  lured  it  away  from  its  own  instinct ;  it  had  gained 
confidence  in  the  little  girl  who  stood  with  gathered  leaves  to 
give  the  loved  one  its  accustomed  supper.  They  gambolled  and 
skipped  about  on  the  grass  together,  and  in  the  sparkling  eye 
of  the  damsel  you  could  read  how  deeply  she  loved  the  petted 

fawn. 

The  morning  sun  rose  brightly,  and  the  balmy  air  gave  spring 
to  every  nerve,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  be  happy."  And  never 
were  two  creatures  more  happy  than  were  the  child  and  her 
fawn.  Happy  in  each  other,  and  as  they  bounded  along  to- 
gether, the  four-footed  creature  outran  its  benefactress,  and 
sought  in  distant  meadows  the  -first  nippings  of  tender  grass. 
An  hour  after  this,  a  deep  wail  of  agony  broke  on  every  ear, 
and  brought  each  member  of  the  household  to  the  scene  of 
grief  The  spotted  fawn,  lifeless  and  bloody,  torn  by  unpitying 
dogs,  was  brought  to  its  doating  mistress.     Here  was  sorrow 


TRANSIENT    JOYS. 


29 


that  could  not  be  assuaged,  for  her  ^Yhole  heart  was  bound  up 
in  the  fawn,  and  no  promised  joy  could  obliterate  the  remem- 
brance of  this  she  had  lost. 

Again  :  I  saw  an  indulgent  father  purchase  for  liis  boy  a 
horse  of  passing  beauty.  The  Bucephalus  of  Philip's  son  was 
not  more  gallant  in  his  bearing,  and  never  was  Arabian  steed 
more  fleet,  more  docile,  and  never  one  more  sagacious.  The 
kind  attentions  of  the  youth  were  not  lost  upon  the  animal ;  in 
vain  might  the  hostler  manoeuvre,  in  vain  the  lads  pursue  ;  no 
other  hand  but  his  master's  could  take  him  in  the  field;  and  the 
boy's  whistle  was  always  returned  by  an  affectionate  neigh. 
Proudly  and  gaily  he  rode  among  his  compeers,  and  out-stripped 
them  afl  in  the  race.  But  his  joy,  too,  was  destined  to  be  short- 
lived. 

One  bright  day,  a  pet  of  nature,  that  inspired  every  hvmg 
thing  with  gaiety,  the  horses  running  in  playful  mood  in  the 
field'i'the  fleetest,  foremost,  fell  upon  a  sharp  stake,  which  en- 
tered his  heart,  and  left  him  upon  the  field,  impaled  and  dead. 

But  I  looked  away  from  childhood's  giddy  hour,  to  man  in 
reason's  prime.  I  saw  the  fine  estate,  the  accumulation  of  half 
a  centmy's  toil,  swept  suddenly  away  by  one  ill-judged  act,  one 
rash  endorsement !  Who  has  not  seen  the  man  of  fortune  made 
pennyless  by  change  of  time  ? 

A  ship  sinks,  a  bank  breaks,  and  the  broken-hearted  father  is 
plunged  in  despair.  She  who  once  rolled  in  aflauence,  now  begs 
in  penury,  while  the  daughter,  fed  by  golden  spoon,  now  stitches 
by  the  midnight  lamp  to  earn  her  bread. 

But  yesterday  I  looked  upon  a  neighbor's  family,  whose  cup 
of  earthly  happiness  seemed  filled  to  overflowing.  His  ample 
fortune  had  reared  a  splendid  mansion,  and  furnished  it  with 
elegance  and  taste.  Every  comfort  and  evefy  luxury  were  at 
his  bidding;  and  to  share  all  this  was  one  whose  beauty  at- 
tracted evel-y  eye,  and  whose  gracefulness  drew  forth  the  admira- 
tion of  each  beholder ;  while  her  elegance  of  form  and  manner 
gained  her  respect  on  the  first  interview,  her  afi-ability  and  ele- 
vation of  mind  chained  to  her  every  intimate  friend.  We  saw 
her  in  her  own  hospitable  saloon,  among  gems,  the  brilliant  of 
chief  attraction,  the  spirit  that  animated  and  charmed  all  around 

The  elegance  of  her  attire  well  became  her  symmetrical  form ; 


30  OUR    COMMON    JOTS 

and,  while  all  admired,  the  oje  of  her  husband  rested  on  her,  oft 
and  again,  with  doating  fondness.  A.  few  morns  passed  over 
us,  when  a  deep  but  subdued  moaning  called  our  attention. 
We  gathered  around,  but  not  for  hilarity.  The  well-turned  arm 
lay  motionless  by  her  side,  that  expressive  eye  was  lustreless  ; 
the  diamond  had  fallen  from  its  casket,  and  beautiful  as  that 
casket  was,  we  touched  but  to  recoil,  for  death's  icy  hand  had 
ruined  it. 

Yes,  we  gathered  around,  to  carry  to  her  last  home  this  beau- 
teous and  beloved  woman  !  And  who  can  paint  the  agony,  or 
soothe  the  sorrow  of  that  stricken  heart  that  loved  her  best. 
Al\  that  could  be  said — and  it  was  the  feeling  of  every  soul — 
wap.  how  sublunary  is  human  happiness !  how  transient  the  best 
of  earthly  joys ! 


OUR    COMMON    JOYS. 

BY   C,    D.    STUART. 

Our  common  joys,  oh !  what  are  they  1 

The  brightest  and  the  best, 
They  glad  us  in  our  busy  walks^ 

Are  with  us  when  we  rest ; 
An  angel  band,  they  hover  round 

In  waking  and  in  dream, 
And  o'er  our  hearts,  in  saddest  hours, 

They  shed  a  golden  beam. 

Our  common  joys,  oh  !  what  are  they 

But  blessings  felt  within, 
For  smallest  deeds  of  goodness  done 

Amid  a  world  of  sin  1 
Tlfe  mite  we  give  the  child  of  want, 

The  slightest  word  of  cheer, 
That  lifts  a  heart  with  sorrow  bowed, 

Or  dries  a  falling  tear. 

Our  common  joys,  oh  !  what  are  theyl 

The  priceless  pearls  and  gold, 
■Wliicli  Memory  sifts  upon  the  heart 

When  life  is  growing  old; 
The  thought  that  we  have  treasured  up 

Where  nought  can  steal  away — 
A  consciousness  of  doing  good, 

With  every  passing  day. 


THE    ^IT    OF    THE    FAMILY 


"  Are  his  wits  safe  1     Is  he  not  h'ght  of  b-raia  V — Shakspeare. 

Feared  by  the  whole  household,  is  the  Wit  of  the  Family; 
dreaded  by  cousins  and  connections ;  avoided  by  visitors  ;  en- 
couraged by  father  and  mother;  and  concihated  by  brothers 
and  sisters.  He  is  Sir  Oracle^  and  when  he  "  opes  his  mouth, 
let  no  dog  bark."  Conticuere  omnes — all  listen,  all  applaud. 
His  platitudes  are  ranked  above  proverbs,  and  his  paradoxes 
are  prodigious.  His  forte  is  sarcasm,  and  he  is  apt  upon  occa- 
sion to  be  terriblv  severe.  He  considers  fault- findino:  an  indi- 
cation  of  superior  discernment,  and  to  "  run  down"  people  and 
things  in  general  is  his  delight.  His  rudeness  is  tolerated  on 
account  of  his  wit,  and  his  reputation  for  humor  frequently 
saves  him  from  chastisement.  His  repetitions  of  worn-out  jokes, 
his  second-hand  sayings,  crmii  his  cocta^  are  quoted  as  extraordi- 
narily clever,  and  although  the  family  have  heard  each  and 
every  one  of  his  jests  a  thousand  times,  they  are  ready  to  expire 
w^ith  laughter  whenever  he  retails  them.  If  a  stranger  happen 
in  at  dinner,  or  for  the  evening,  he  at  first  finds  it  difiicult  to 
comprehend  the  reason  of  the  frequent  cachinatory  explosions, 
whenever  a  certain  stupid  looking  youth  makes  a  common-place 
repartee,  or  rehearses  an  antique  anecdote;  but  the  m.ystery 
soon  becomes  solved,  and  his  mind  enlightened,  when  he  is  in- 
formed— as  he  is  certain  to  be,  before  he  has  been  in  the  house 
a  quarter  of  an  hour — that  Bob  is  "  wonderful  smart,"  the  most 
satirical  chap,  the  capitalest  mimic,  the  admirablest  punster,  so 
amusing,  so  droll,  so  queer,  so  funny — in  short,  the  acknow- 
ledged "  Wit  of  the  Family?' 

Bob  w^as  a  dull  boy  at  school — a  very  dull  boy,  but  so  was 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  was  always  at  the  foot  of  his  class, 
never  would  learn  his  lessons,  never  passed  a  fair  examination 
in  any  one  study,  but  neither  did  Richard  Brindlc}''  Sheridan. 
Great  archetypes  these  for  dolts  and  dunces  at  school.     The 


32  THE    ^VIT    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

example  was  appropriate,  the  parallel  perfect,  so  long  as  Bob 
was  a  boy ;  but  from  the  very  moment  he  emerged  from  child- 
hood, his  models  were  not  imitated  and  the  resemblance  ceased. 
He  was  as  dull  a  youth  in  college,  as  he  had  been  a  boy  at 
school.  He  came  "  within  an  ace"  of  not  getting  his  degree, 
but  consoled  himself  by  saying,  as  many  of  his  predecessors  had 
said  before,  and  so  often,  that  it  had  become  one  of  the  "  stand- 
ing jokes"  in  the  college,  he  intended  to  rise  suddenly  in  the 
world,  and  not  by  degrees. 

After  four  j^ears  passed  in  vacant  idleness  and  profitless 
association  of  congenial  spirits.  Bob  "  studied  the  law,"  of  course 
— that  is,  he  entered  his  name  and  person  in  the  office  of  an 
attorney,  perhaps  his  own  father,  or  some  one  equally  indulgent. 
There  he  dwaddled  for  three  years  ;  read  French  novels,  and 
smoked  segars  ;  played  on  a  wind  instrument  at  a  private  musi- 
cal society,  and  frequented  the  opera,  where  he  turned  up  his 
nose  at  the  performance  and  the  ladies'  dresses.  He  was  then 
"  admitted  to  the  bar,"  but  it  strangely  haj^pens  that  he  never 
has  any  business,  nor  a  single  brief,  nor  so  much  as  the  drawing 
up  of  a  deed. 

During  all  this  time,  while  a  dull  boy  at  school,  a  vacant  idler 
at  college,  a  loiterer  about  the  precincts  of  the  law,  he  lives, 
with  occasional  absences,  at  home,  in  his  father's  house,  under 
his  mother's  e3''e — and  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  so  long  as  that 
household  lasts,  the  Wit  of  the  Pamily.  What  would  be  re- 
sented as  insolence  in  another,  is  mere  fun  in  him  ;  what  would 
be  punished  as  unwarrantable  liberties,  is  only  "  his  ways ;" 
what  would  be  frowned  down  as  vulgarity,  is  in  him  freedom 
of  manners.  If  a  friend  comes  in,  and  his  feelings  are  wounded 
by  one  of  Bob's  severe  remarks,  he  is  told  not  to  mind  it,  "  it 
was  only  a  joke  ;" — if  a  young  lady  is  caused  to  blush  crimson 
by  a  queer  allusion,  or  shocked  and  disgusted  by  his  sportive 
familiarity,  she  is  advised  not  to  take  notice  of  it, — "'  Bob  is  pri- 
vileged, you  know — he  means  no  harm — he  is  such  a  funny 
fellow  !" 

The  family  think  it  very  naughty,  indeed,  for  any  body  to 
kick  Bob,  for  his  impudence,  or  tweak  his  nose  for  one  of  his 
harmless  witticisms,  or  threaten  to  turn  him  out  of  doors  unless 
he  behaved  more  like  a  gentleman.  "  It  is  strange — very — 
that  people  don't  understand  our  Bob  better ;  he  don't  mean 


THE    WIT    OF    THE    FAMILY.  33 

anything ;  it  is  all  in  fun."  Nevertheless,  persons  out  of  doors 
who  are  the  subject  of  his  pleasant  sarcasm  and  playful  irony, 
are  in  the  position  of  that  individual  in  the  fable,  who  did  not 
like  to  be  jumped  upon  by  a  donkey.  Therefore,  it  is  alwaya 
safest  for  him  to  confine  his  severity  to  members  of  his  paternal 
household,  and  never  insult  any  lady,  except  when  she  ventures 
on  a  visit  to  his  mother  and  sisters.  It  is  just  possible  for  him 
to  be  tolerated  by  a  few  old  friends  and  near  relations ;  but  he 
cannot  be  sure  of  immunity,  except  when  it  is  perfectly  under- 
stood that  he  is  "  The  Wit  of  the  Familv.'" 

For  my  own  part,  not  being  very  quick  at  taking  a  joke,  or 
guessing  a  conundrum,  or  discovering  the  concealed  meaning 
of  equivocal  grossness,  I  could  never  appreciate  the  cleverness 
nor  admire  the  verbal  dexterity  of  an  acknowledged  wit.  It 
always  seems  to  me,  that  he  is  an  insufierable  bore.  There  are 
few  inflictions  more  tedious  than  the  company  of  one  who  is 
making  perpetual  efforts  to  astonish  you.  I  ahvays  feel  myself 
called  upon  to  say  something  brilliant  by  way  of  rejoinder,  and 
as  I  generally  fail  in  this  respect,  I  am  doubly  annoyed  by  my 
own  stupidity,  and  the  sneers  of  my  interlocutor.  I  am  a  quiet 
man,  one  of  whom  it  cannot  be  said,  as  Steele  sagaciously  ob- 
served of  Shakspeare,  *'  he  has  an  agreeable  wildness  of  imagi- 
nation." I  therefore  "  cotton,"  to  use  a  coinage  of  Mrs.  Fanny 
Kemble  Butler,  to  people  who  talk  sense  rather  than  wit,  who 
dehght  more  in  extolKng  merit  than  in  detecting  faults.  I  value 
the  man  who  possesses  a  sound  judgment  above  him  who  has  a 
turn  for  ridicule.  True  wit  and  genuine  humor  are  quahties  as 
fascinating  as  they  are  rare,  but  nothing  is  more  common  or  dis- 
pleasing, than  an  affectation  of  the  one,  or  low  attempts  at  the 
other. 

There  is  nothing  more  annoying  to  a  sensible  person  than  an 
encounter  with  a  professed  wit.  You  are  constantly  afraid  that 
one  of  his  random  arrows  will  hit  you;  for,  however  blunt  or 
poorly  feathered  it  may  be,  it  is  sure  to  reach  its  mark,  if  wafted 
and  guided  by  the  laughter  of  those  present.  You  can  neither 
retort  rudeness  when  it  comes  from  such  a  quarter,  nor  resent 
an  insult,  without  incurring  the  imputation  of  a  sudden  and  cap- 
tious temper.  Your  only  refuge  is,  to  adopt  a  forcible  phrase 
of  the  vulgar,  "  to  grin  and  bear  it."  You  may  resolve  at  the 
moment  within  yourself  to  cane  the  professed  wit,  the  first  time 


34  SIN   NO    MORE. 

you  catch  him  alone ;  but,  before  long,  you  laugh  at  yourself  for 
being  angry  with  a  fool — a  Harlequin  of  society,  who  is  suffered 
to  cut  up  his  antics,  crack  his  traditionary  jests,  and  even  thrust 
his  cap  and  bells  into  your  face,  exciting  nothing  less  than  a 
smile  of  derision. 

Of  those  pretended  votaries  of  Monus,  there  are  many.  They 
differ  in  kind  and  degree.  Some  are  public,  and  they  shine  at 
great  dinners ;  some  are  convivial,  and  ttiey  dazzle  at  small  sup- 
pers ;  some  are  legal,  and  they  coruscate  in  the  courts ;  some 
are  medical,  and  they  make  merry  of  disease  and  death ;  some 
are  clerical,  and  .  they  torture  texts  for  the  diversion  of  the 
brethren  ;  and  some  arc  domestic,  and  they  are  excruciatingly 
funny  about  everything,  and  thought  the  world  of  at  home,  and 
abominated  everywhere  else — of  whom,  I  have  endeavored  to 
describe  a  specimen  under  his  accorded  title,  "  The  Wit  of  the 
TamUy." 


■<•*- 


SIN    NO    MORE. 


BY     SAMUEL     WOODWORTH. 


A  SONG  of  gratitude  begin, 
To  praise  the  God  who  saves  from  sin ; 
Who  marks  the  penitential  tear, 
And  deigns  the  contrite  sigh  to  hear. 
Who  whispers  peace,  when  we  our  sins  deplore, 
"  Thy  God  condemns  thee  not — offend  no  more." 
But  ah  !  such  love  can  ne'er  be  sung, 
Such  boundless  grace,  by  mortal  tongue, 
For  e'en  celestial  minstrels  deem 
Their  highest  skill  below  the  theme, 
Yet  mortals  can  with  gratitude  adore 
The  God  who  pardons  all  who  "  sm  no  riiore." 
Dear  Lord,  is  this  condition  all, 
To  fight  the  foes  that  wrought  our  fall  ? 
Thus  armed  with  Hope,  I'll  quell  a  host, 
Not  let  my  heavenly  seat  be  lost. 
Oh,  then  repeat  the  sweet  assurance  o'er, 
"  Thy  God  will  not  condemn  thee— sin  no  more." 


THE   NATUEALIST: 

OR,      BIHDS      OF      A      FEAT  II  EH. 


As  you  pass  along  the  wooded  outskirts  of  the  hamlet,  notice, 
for  a  moment,  that  row  of  sullen,  moody-looking  birds,  about 
twice  the  size  of  a  common  turkey.  They  are  sitting  on  that 
old  log,  resting  from  their  labors :  labors  that  have  quite  over- 
come them,  and  have,  in  truth,  incapacitated  them  for  a  flight 
above  the  wood.  But  in  what  have  they  been  engaged  ?  And 
why,  as  they  sit  thus  leisurely,  does  not  the  sportsman  make 
them  his  mark  ?  They  are  a  species  of  falcon  or  hawk,  of  a 
giant  size,  and  are  well  known  in  some  parts  of  our  country,  by 
the  famiUar  coo^nomen  of  ••  Buzzards."  Those  who  notice  their 
habits,  know  that  they  soar  in  the  air  with  a  watchful  but  slug- 
gish movement,  over  forest  and  iield,  passing  without  obser\ing 
all  the  delightful  perfumes  of  the  blooming  orchard  and  of  the 
clovered  meadow,  deigning  never  to  stoop  to  earth  till  they 
snuff  the  pestilential  air  of  a  dead  and  decajnng  animal,  when 
they  quickly  alight  upon  the  carrion  and  engorge  their  depraved 
appetites  upon  the  revolting  morsel.  The  fowUng-piece  seldom 
disturbs  them,  for  they  are  utterly  worthless,  except  for  the 
£lthy  office  which  they  occupy.     They  are  Nature's  feathered 


scavengers. 


Analogous  to  this  unlovely  bird,  is  a  character  among  men. 
Yes,  such  is  he  who  loves  to  feast  his  imagination  upon  the  vices 
of  mankind,  who  stores  in  his  mind  nothing  but  the  frailties  of 
his  fellow-beings,  passes  each  amiable  trait  unnoticed,  and 
pounces  with  the  perverted  taste  of  the  turkey -buzzard,  upon 
that  only  which  is  odious.  His  eye  sees  nothing  but  gloomy 
prospects,  his  ear  listens  onW  to  hideous  sounds,  his  olfactories 
perceive  nothing  but  the  inodorous.  "When  a  person  of  distin- 
guished merit  passes  by,  whose  virtues  obtrude  themselves  upon 
tis  consideration,  he  either  detects  something  to  find  fault  with, 


36  THE   NATURALIST  '. 

or  he  allows  Envy  (which  is  rottenness  to  the  bones,)  to  dispos- 
Bot^s  him  of  all  the  happiness  he  might  otherwise  feel  in  the 
advancement  of  a  neighbor  to  a  post  of  honor :  and  all  the 
pleasure  he  might  enjoy  in  the  virtuous  conduct  or  useful  life  of 
some  worthy  companion.  And  all  this  hatefulness  of  character, 
in  the  very  height  of  its  imperfection,  is  attained  by  the  indul- 
gence of  an  undiaritahlc  disposition. 

But  let  us  return  to  the  quiet  portico  of  our  own  little  cot- 
tage ;  and  as  we  enjoy  the  retirement  and  shade  of  the  fragrant 
honey-suckle,  observe  for  a  moment,  that  beautiful  little  thing 
that  darts  from  flower  to  flower  so  quickly  that  we  scarce  can 
tell  what  it  is.  At  one  moment  we  declare  it  as  a  bee,  but  the 
next  we  are  assured  it  is  a  bird.  Yes,  it  is  the  very  link  between 
the  insect  and  the  feathered  creation.  Our  Maker  seems  to 
have  formed  her  to  elicit  admiration,  and  we  know  not  which  to 
dwell  upon  most,  the  prismatic  colors  of  her  plumage,  the  deli- 
cacy of  her  frame,  or  the  agility  of  her  movements.  But  there 
is  more  than  grace  in  her  action — there  is  music  there.  The 
rapid  flapping  of  her  tiny  wing  produces  the  sound  from  which 
she  takes  her  name  of  Hummino'-bird. 

But  step  this  way — ^it  is  a  digression  from  our  subject — but 
only  for  a  moment.  Come  close  to  the  lilac-bush,  raise  yourself 
now  on  tiptoe — look  down,  just  here.  Peep  into  that  thimble-like 
nest,  see  its  miniature  deposit  of  two  httle  peas  of  eggs.  "We 
wonder  how  she  hides  her  precious  treasure  from  curious  eyes, 
and  from  the  crushing  hand  of  wanton  boys  !  But  M^hen  we 
behold  those  tiny  patches  of  green  moss,  the  very  color  of  the 
branch  on  which  the  nest  hangs,  so  nicely  thatching  the  whole 
of  her  paradise  home,  that  the  eye  of  the  keenest  is  deceived, 
and  few  would  take  it  for  other  than  a  clumsy  knot,  from  whence 
a  branch  had  some  time  since  been  broken,  we  admire  her  do. 
mestic  economy  and  can  scarce  help  exclaiming :  "  Little  one, 
thou  wast  taught  of  thy  Maker."  But  see  her  now,  as  she 
darts  from  flower  to  flower,  and  dips  her  needle-like  beak  into 
the  very  calyx  of  the  deepest,  and  extracts  from  thence  its  sweet- 
est nectar.  She  sees  nothing  but  the  beautiful,  lives  among 
life's  odors,  and  tastes  nothing  but  the  sweets  that  this  w^orld 
affords.  Beautiful  Humming-bird  !  thou  art  a  gem  even  among 
the  handiwork  of  God  !  And  such  among  human  beings  is  he 
whose  benevolent  heart  finds  a  ready  excuse  for  the  peccadilloes 


EVERY-DAY    LIFE.  37 

and  slips  of  his  fellow-mortals.  He  takes  2^^e<^sure  in  the  amia- 
bility of  this  one,  and  delights  in  the  noble  generosity  of  the 
other.  He  sees  and  appreciates  each  excellence  that  adorns 
his  companion,  enjoys  all  that  is  good  ;  and  if  forced  at  any 
time  to  notice  something  that  looks  Hke  fallen  nature,  ho  hides 
with  the  mantle  of  that  Heaven-born  charity,  which  "  covers  a 
multitude  of  sins,"  the  faults  which  pain  him  to  his  heart,  and 
drive  him,  perchance,  to  his  closet  to  petition  for  his  friend  the 
forgiveness  of  a  long-suffering  God.  Eeader,  it  is  a  trite  old 
adage,  "  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together." 

And  where  shall  we  find  our  companionship  ?  With  th« 
Buzzard  or  the  Humminij-bird  ? — with  the  Censorious  or  the 
Charitable  ? 


EYEEY-DAY    LIFE 


A  FAMILY  resembles  at  the  same  time  a  poem  and  a  machine. 
Of  the  poetry  of  it  or  the  song  of  the  feelings  which  streams 
through  all  parts  and  unites  them  together,  which  wreathes 
flowers  around  life's  crown  of  thorns,  and  clothes  "  the  bare 
hills  of  reality"  with  the  greenness  of  hope — of  this  every  heart 
knows.  But  the  machinery,  (without  whose  well-accompanied 
movements  Vopera  della  vita  is  entirely  unsupported,)  m.any 
consider  as  unimportant  and  neglect  it.  And  still  this  part  of 
the  plan  of  domestic  life  is  not  the  least  essential,  for  its  harmo- 
nious operation.  It  is  with  this  machinery  as  with  that  of  a 
clock.  If  the  wheels,  springs,  &c.,  are  in  good  order,  the  pen- 
dulum needs  but  a  touch,  and  everything  begins  its  proper  mo- 
tion. Everything  goes  on  in  order  and  quiet,  as  if  of  itself,  and 
the  golden  bands  of  peace  and  prosperity  point  out  all  the  hours 
upon  its  clear  face. 


THE    OLD    APPLE    TREB. 


BY    MKS.    ANN    S.    «TEPnKN3. 


I  AM  tliinlsing  of  the  homestead 

With  its  low  and  sloping  roof, 
And  the  maple  boughs  that  shadowed  it. 

With  a  grocn  and  leafy  woof; 
I  am  thinking  of  the  lilac  trees, 

That  shook  their  purple  plumes, 
And  when  the  sash  was  open, 

Shed  fragrance  through  our  rooms, 

I  am  thinking  of  the  rivulet, 

With  its  cool  and  silvery  flow, 
Of  the  old  grey  rock  that  shadowed  it, 

And  the  pepper-mint  below. 
I  am  not  sad  nor  sorrowful. 

But  memories  will  come, 
So  leave  me  to  my  solitude. 

And  let  me  think  of  home. 

There  -was  not  around  my  birth-place 

A  thicket  or  a  flower. 
But  childish  game  or  friendly  face 

Has  given  it  a  power 
To  haunt  me  in  my  after  life, 

And  be  with  me  again, 
A  sweet  and  pleasant  memory 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

But  the  old  and  knotted  apple-tree 

That  stood  beneath  the  hill, 
My  heart  can  never  turn  to  it, 

But  with  a  pleasant  thrill. 
Oh,  what  a  dreamy  life  I  led, 

Beneath  its  old  green  shade 
"Where  the  daisies  and  the  buttcr-cui* 

A  pleasant  carpet  made. 


THE   OLD    APPLE   TREE.  39 

'Twas  a  rough  old  tree  in  spring-time, 

When  with  a  bkistering  sound, 
The  wind  came  hoarsely  sweeping 

Along  the  frosty  ground. 
But  \Yhen  there  rose  a  rivalry 

'Tween  clouds  and  pleasant  weather, 
'Till  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  drops 

Came  laughing  down  together  • — 

That  patriarch  old  apple  tree 

Enjoyed  the  lovely  strife, 
The  sap  sprang  lightly  through  its  veins, 

And  circled  into  life  ; 
A  cloud  of  pale  and  tender  buds 

Burst  o'er  each  rugged  bough. 
And  amid  the  startling  verdure, 

The  robins  made  their  vow. 

That  tree  was  very  beautiful 

When  all  the  leaves  were  green, 
And  rosy  buds  lay  opening 

Amid  their  tender  sheen. 
When  the  bright  translucent  dew-drops 

Shed  blossoms  as  they  fell, 
And  melted  in  their  fragrance 

Like  music  in  a  shell. 

It  was  greenest  in  the  summer  time, 

When  cheerful  sunlight  wove. 
Amid  its  thrifty  leafiness, 

A  warm  and  glowing  love  ; 
When  swelling  fruit  blushed  ruddily, 

To  summer's  balmy  breath, 
And  the  laden  boughs  drooped  heavilyj 

To  the  green  sward  underneath. 

'Twas  brightest  in  a  rainy  day, 

When  all  the  purple  West 
Was  piled  with  fleecy  storm-clouds, 

That  never  seemed  at  rest ; 
When  a  cool  and  lulling  melody. 

Fell  from  the  dripping  eaves. 
And  soft,  warm  drops  came  pattering 

Upon  the  restless  leaves. 

But.  oh  !  the  scene  was  glorious, 

When  clouds  were  lightly  riven, 
And  there,  above  my  valley  home, 

Came  out  the  bow  of  Heaven  ; 


40  THE    OLD    APPLE   TREE. 

And  in  its  fitful  brilliancy, 
Iliino;  quivcruig  on  high, 

Like  a  jeweled  arch  of  paradise, 
Reflected  through  the  sky. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  footpath 

My  constant  visits  made, 
Between  the  dear  old  homestead, 

And  that  leafy  apple  shade  ; 
Where  the  flow  of  distant  waters 

Came  with  a  tinkling  sound, 
Like  the  revels  of  a  fairy  band, 

Beneath  the  fragrant  ground. 

I  haunted  it  at  even-tide, 

And  dreamily  would  lie, 
And  watch  the  crimson  twilight, 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  see  its  djnng  gold 

Wake  up  the  dusky  leaves, 
To  hear  the  swallows  twittering 

Beneath  the  distant  eaves, 

I  have  listened  to  the  music — 

A  low,  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Breathed  by  a  lonely  night-bird, 

That  haunted  that  old  troe, 
'Till  my  heart  has  swelled  with  feelings 

For  which  it  had  no  name, 
A  yearning  love  of  poesy, 

A  thirsting  after  fame. 

I  have  gazed  up  through  the  foliage 

With  dim  and  tearful  eyes. 
And  with  a  holy  reverence, 

Dwelt  on  the  changing  skies, 
'Till  the  burning  stars  were  peopled 

With  forms  of  soirit-birth. 
And  I've  almost  heard  their  harp-strings 

Reverberate  on  earth. 


-•••- 


THE    OLD    DEACON 


BY    MRS.    ANN    S.    STEPHENS. 


"  She  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well." 

It  was  a  balmy  pleasant  Sabbath  morning;  so  green  and 
tranquil  was  our  valley  home,  that  the  very  air  seemed  more 
holy  than  on  other  days.  The  dew  w^as  floating  in  a  veil  of 
soft  mist  from  the  meadows  on  School  Hill,  where  the  sun- 
shine came  warmly,  while  the  wild-flow^ers  in  the  valley  lay  in 
shadow,  still  heavy  with  the  night  rain.  The  trees  which 
feathered  the  hill-sides,  were  vividly  green,  and  Castle  Eock 
towered — a  magnificent  picture — its  base  washed  by  the  water, 
and  darkened  by  unbroken  shadow,  while  a  soft  fleecy  cloud, 
woven  and  impregnated  with  silvery  hght,  floated  among  its 
topmost  cliffs. 

The  two  villages  lay  upon  their  opposite  hills,  with  the  deep 
river  ghding  between,  like  miniature  cities,  deserted  by  the  feet 
of  men  ;  not  a  sound  arose  to  disturb  the  sweet  music  of  nature, 
for  it  was  the  hour  of  morning  prayer,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  hearth-stone  which,  at  that  time,  was  not  made  a  domestic 
altar.  At  last  a  deep  bell-tone  came  sweeping  over  the  valley 
from  the  Episcopal  steeple,  and  was  answered  by  a  cheerful 
peel  from  the  belfry  of  our  new  academy.  The  reverberations 
Were  still  sounding,  mellowed  by  the  distant  rocks,  when  the 
hitherto  silent  village  seemed  suddenly  teeming  with  life.  The 
dwelling-houses  w^ere  flung  open,  and  the  inhabitants  came  forth 
in  smiling  family-groups,  prepared  for  w^orship.  Gradually 
they  divided  into  separate  parties.  The  Presbyterians 
\valked  slowly  toward  their  huge  old  meeting-house,  and  the 
more  gail^'^-dressed  Episcopahans,  seeking  their  more  fashionable 
house  of  worship.  It  was  a  pleasant  sight — those  people,  simple 
in  their  habits,  yet  stern  if  not  bigoted  sectarians,  gathering 
together  for  so  good  a  purpose.     Old  people  were  out — grand 


44  THE    OLD    DEACON. 

fathers  and  grandmothers,  with  the  blossom  of  the  grave  on 
their  aged  temples.  Children,  with  their  rosy  cheeks  and  sunny 
eyes,  rendered  more  rosy  and  more  bright  with  pride  of  their 
white  frocks,  pretty  straw  bonnets  and  pink  wreaths.  It  w^as 
pleasant  to  see  the  little  m.en  and  women  striving  in  vain  to  sub- 
due their  bounding  steps,  and  school  their  sparkling  faces  to  a 
solemnity  befitting  the  occasion.  There  might  be  seen  a  newly- 
married  pair  walking  bashfully  apart,  not  daring  to  venture 
on  the  unprecedented  boldness  of  hnkmg  arms  in  public,  yet 
feeling  very  awkward,  and  almost  envying  another  couple  w^ho 
led  a  roguish  little  girl  between  them.  She — a  mischievous  little 
thing — all  the  time  exerting  her  baby  strength  to  wnng  that 
chubby  hand  from  her  mother's  grasp — pouting  her  cherry  lips 
when  either  of  her  scandalized  parents  checked  her  bounding 
step  or  too  noisy  prattle,  and,  at  last,  subdued  only  by  intense 
admiration  of  her  morocco  shoes,  as  they  flashed  in  and  out  like 
a  brace  of  wood-hlies,  beneath  her  spotted  muslin  dress. 

Apart  from  the  rest,  and,  perhaps,  lingering  along  the  green 
sward  which  grew  rich  and  thick  on  either  side  of  the  high-way, 
another  group,  perchance,  w^as  gathered.  Young  girls,  school- 
mates and  friends,  with  their  heads  bending  together,  and  smiles 
dimpling  their  fresh  hps,  all  doubtless  conversing  about  sacred 
themes  befitting  the  day. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  our  village  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the 
subject  of  this  little  sketch  takes  us  to  the  old  Presbyterian 
meeting-house  on  School  Hill,  a  sombre  ancient  pile,  already 
familiar  to  those  of  our  readers  who  have  read  the  "  Home 
Sketches"  preceding  this. 

Our  academy  bell  had  not  ceased  ringing,  when  the  congre- 
gation came  slowly  in  through  the  different  doors  of  the  meeting- 
bouse,  and  arranged  themselves  at  will  in  the  square  pews  which 
crowded  the  body.  The  minister  had  not  yet  arrived,  a  circum- 
stance which  occurred  to  some  of  the  congregation  as  somewhat 
singular.  Twenty  years  he  had  been  their  pastor,  and  during 
that  time,  had  never  once  kept  his  congregation  waiting.  At 
length  he  appeared  at  the  southern  entrance,  and  walked  up 
the  aisle,  followed  by  the  grey-headed  old  deacon.  The  minis- 
ter paused  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  with  a  look  of 
deep  and  respectful  reverence,  held  the  door  of  the  "  Deacon's 
Seat,"  while  the  old  man  passed  in.     That  little  attention  went 


THE   OLD    DEACON.  45 

to  the  deacon's  heart ;  he  raised  his  heavy  eyes  to  the  pastor 
^Yith  a  meek  and  heart-touching  expression  of  gratitude,  that 
softened  many  who  looked  upon  it,  even  to  tears.  The  minister 
turned  away  and  went  up  the  stairs,  not  in  his  usual  sedate 
manner,  but  hurriedly,  and  with  unsteady  footsteps.  When  he 
arrived  in  the  pulpit,  those  who  sat  in  the  gallery,  saw  him  fall 
upon  his  knees,  bury  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  pray  earnestly, 
and  it  might  be,  weep,  for  when  he  arose  his  eyes  were  dim  and 
flushed. 

Directly  after  the  entrance  of  the  minister  and  deacon,  came 
two  females,  one  a  tall,  spare  w^oman,  with  thin  features,  very 
pale,  and  bespeaking  continued  but  meekly-endured  suffering. 
There  was  a  beautiful  and  Quaker-like  simplicity  in   the  book 
muslin  kerchief  folded  over  the  bosom  of  her  black  silk  dress, 
with  the  corners   drawn  under  the  riband  strings  in  front,  and 
pinned  smoothly  to  the  dress  behind.  Her  grey  hair  was  parted 
neatly  under  the  black  straw  bonnet,  and  those  w^ho  knew  her  re- 
marked that  it  had  gained   much  of  its  silver  since  she  had 
last  entered  that  door.     In  her  arms  the  matron  bore  a  rosy 
infant,  robed  in  a  long  white  frock,  and  an  embroidered  cap.  A 
faint  color  broke  into  her  sallow  cheek,  for  though  she  did  not 
look  up,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  every  eye  in  that  assembly  was 
turned  upon  her  burthen.  They  were  all  her  neighbors,  many  of 
them  kind  and  truthful  friends,  who  had  knelt  atthe  same  commu- 
nion-table with  her  for  years.   Yet  she  could  not  meet  their  eyes, 
nor  force  that  tinge  of  shame  from  her  pure  cheek,  but  moved 
humbly  forward,  weighed  to  the  dust  wnth  a  sense  of  humihation 
and  suffering.     A  shght,   fair  creature,   walked   by  her  side, 
partly  shrinking  behind  her  all  the  way,  pale  and  drooping,  like 
a  crushed  lily.  It  was  the  deacon's  daughter,  and  the  babe  wai5 
hers,  but  she  was  unmarried.     A  black  dress  and  plain  white 
Vandyke  supplanted  the  mushn  that,  in  the  day  of  her  innocence, 
had  harmonized  so  sweetly  with  her  pure  complexion.     The 
close  straw  bonnet  was  the  same,  but  its  trimming  of  pale  blue 
was  displaced  by  a  white  satin  riband,  while  the  rich  and  abun- 
dant brown  curls  that  had  formerly  drooped  over  her  neck,  were 
o-athered  up,  and  parted  plainly  over  her  forehead.     One  look 
she  cast  upon  the  congregation,  then  her  eyes  fell,  the  long 
lashes  dropped  to  her  burning  cheek,  and  with  a  downcast  brow 
she  followed  her  mother  to  a  seat,  but  not  that  occupied  by  the 


4G  THE    OLD    DEACON. 

old  deacon.  There  was  a  slight  bustle  when  she  entered,  and 
many  eyes  were  bent  on  her,  a  few  from  curiosity,  more  from 
an  impulse  of  commiseration.  She  sat  motionless  in  a  coiner 
of  a  pew,  her  head  dropping  forward,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
small  hands  that  lay  clasped  in  her  lap. 

After  the  little  party  was  settled^  a  stillness  crept  over  the 
house ;  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  or  tlie  rustle  of  u  silk 
dress,  to  the  extremity  of  that  large  room.  All  at  once  there 
arose  a  noise  jit  the  door  opposite  the  pulpit ;  it  was  but  a  footstep 
ringing  on  the  threshold  stone,  and  yet  the  people  turned  their 
heads  and  looked  startled,  as  if  somethins;  uncommon  were  about 
to  happen.  It  was  only  a  handsome,  bold-looking  young  man, 
who  walked  up  the  aisle  with  a  haughty  step,  and  entered  a  pew 
on  the  opposite  side  from  that  occupied  by  the  mother  and 
daughter,  and  somewhat  nearer  the  pulpit.  A  battery  of  glances 
was  levelled  on  him  from  the  galleries,  but  he  looked  carelessly 
up,  and  even  smiled  when  a  young  girl,  by  whom  he  seated  him- 
self, drew  back  with  a  look  of  indignation  to  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  pew.  The  old  deacon  looked  up  as  those  bold  footsteps 
broke  the  stillness ;  his  thin  cheek  and  lips  became  deathly 
white,  he  grasped  the  railing  convulsively,  half  rose,  and  then 
fell  forward  with  his  face  on  his  hands,  and  remained  motionless 
as  before.  Well  might  the  wronged  old  man  yield,  for  a  moment, 
to  the  infirmities  of  human  nature,  even  in  the  house  of  God. 
That  bold  man  who  thus  audaciously  intruded  into  his  presence, 
had  crept  like  a  serpent  to  his  hearth-stone — had  made  his  hon- 
est name  a  bye-word,  and  his  daughter,  the  child  of  his  old  age, 
a  creature  for  men  to  bandy  jest  about.  But  for  him,  that  girl 
now  shrinkinrr  from  the  o-aze  of  her  own  friends,  would  have 
remained  the  pride  of  his  home,  a  ewe  lamb  in  the  church  of 
God.  Through  his  wiles  she  had  fallen  from  the  high  place  of 
her  religious  trust,  and  now,  in  the  fulness  of  her  penitence,  she 
had  come  forward  to  confess  her  fault  and  receive  forgiveness  of 
the  church  it  had  disgraced. 

The  old  deacon  had  lost  his  children  one  by  one,  till  this 
gentle  girl  alone  was  left  to  him  ;  he  had  folded  a  love  for  her, 
his  latest  born,  in  his  innermost  heart,  till  all  unconsciously  she 
had  become  to  it  an  idol.  The  old  man  thought  it  was  to  punish 
him,  that  God  had  permitted  her  tosink  into  a  temptation;  he  said 
so,  beseechingly,  to  the  elders  of  the  church,  when,  at  her  re- 


THE    OLD    DEACON.  47 

quest,  he  called  them  together,  and  made  known  her  disijrace. 
He  tried  to  take  some  of  the  blame  upon  himself;  said  that  he 
had,  perhaps,  been  less  indulgent  than  he  should  have  been,  and 
so  her  affections  had  been  more  easily  won  from  her  home  and 
duty — that  he  feared  he  had  been  a  proud  man — spiritually 
proud,  but  now  ho  was  more  humble,  and  if  his  heavenly  Father 
had  allowed  these  things  in  order  to  chasten  him,  the  end  had 
been  attained  ;  he  was  a  stricken  old  man,  but  could  say,  "  the 
will  of  God  be  done."  Therefore  he  besought  his  brethren  not 
to  cast  her  out  to  disgrace,  but  to  accept  her  confession  of  error 
and  repentance ;  to  be  merciful  and  to  receive  her  back  to  the 
church.  He  went  on  to  say  how  humbly  she  had  crept  to  his 
feet,  and  prayed  him  to  forgive  her ;  how  his  wife  bad  spent 
night  after  night  in  prayer  for  her  fallen  child,  and  so  he  left  her 
in  their  hands,  only  entreating  that  they  would  deal  mercifully 
by  her,  and  he  would  bless  them  for  it. 

Willingly  would  the  sympathizing  elders  have  received  the 
stray  lamb  again,  without  further  humiliation  to  the  broken- 
hearted old  man;  but  it  could  not  be.  The  ungodly  were  will- 
ing to  visit  the  sins  of  individuals  on  a  whole  community.  The 
purity  of  their  church  must  be  preserved — the  penance  ex- 
acted. 

From  the  time  of  that  church  meeting,  the  poor  father  bent 
himself  earnestly  to  the  strengthening  of  his  child's  good  pur- 
poses. He  made  no  complaint,  and  strove  to  appear — na}^,  to 
be — resigned  and  cheerful ;  he  still  continued  to  perform  the 
office  of  deacon,  though  the  erect  gait  and  somewhat  dignified 
consciousness  of  worth  that  formerly  distinguished  him,  had  ut- 
terly disappeared.  On  each  succeeding  Sabbath,  his  brethren 
observed  some  new  prostration  of  strength.  Day  by  day,  his 
cheek  grew  thin — his  voice  hollow,  and  his  step  more  and  more 
feeble.  It  was  a  piteous  sight — a  man  who  had  been  remark- 
able for  bearing  his  years  so  bravely,  moving  through  the  isles 
of  that  old  meeting-house  with  downcast  eyes,  and  shoulders 
fitooping  as  beneath  a  burden. 

At  last  the  mildew  of  grief  began  to  wither  up  the  memory 
of  that  good  man.  AYhen  the  first  indications  of  this  appeared, 
the  hearts  of  his  brethren  yearned  toward  the  poor  deacon,  with 
a  united  feeling  of  deep  commiseration.  The  day  of  Juha's 
humiliation  had  been  appointed,  and  the  Sabbath  which  pre- 


48  THE   OLD    DEACON. 

ceded  it  was  a  sacramental  one.  The  old  deacon  was  getting 
very  decrepit,  and  his  friends  would  have  persuaded  him  from 
performing  the  duties  of  the  day.  He  shook  his  head,  remarked 
that  they  were  very  kind,  but  he  was  not  ill,  so  they  let  him 
bear  the  silver  cup  filled  with  consecrated  wine,  as  he  had  done 
for  twenty  years  before,  though  many  an  eye  filled  with  tears  as 
it  marked  the  continued  trembling  of  that  hand,  which  more 
than  once  caused  the  cup  to  shake,  and  the  w^ne  to  run  down  its 
sides  on  the  floor.  There  was  an  absent  smile  upon  his  face 
when  he  came  to  his  daughter's  seat.  On  finding  it  empty  he 
stood  bewildered,  and  looked  helplessly  round  upon  the  congre- 
gation, as  if  he  would  have  inquired  why  she  was  not  there. 
Suddenly  he  seemed  to  recollect :  a  mortal  paleness  overspread 
his  face.  The  wine-cup  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  was  led 
away,  crying  like  a  child. 

Many  of  his  brethren  visited  the  afflicted  man  during  the  next 
week.  They  always  found  him  in  his  orchard,  wandering  about 
under  the  heavy  boughs,  and  picking  up  the  withered  green 
aj^ples  which  the  worms  had  eaten  away  from  their  unripe 
stems.  These  he  dihgently  hoarded  away  near  a  large  sweet- 
briar  bush,  w^hich  grew  in  a  corner  of  the  rail-fence.  On  the 
next  Sabbath- he  appeared  in  the  meeting-house,  accompanied 
by  a  minister  as  we  have  described,  to  be  outraged  in  the  very 
house  of  God,  by  the  presence  of  the  man  who  had  desolated 
his  home.  It  is  little  wonder,  that  even  there,  his  just  wrath 
was,  for  a  moment,  kindled.  The  service  began,  and  that  erring 
girl  listened  to  it  as  one  in  a  dream.  Her  heart  seemed  in  a 
painful  sleep ;  but  when  the  minister  closed  his  Bible,  and  sat 
down,  the  stillness  made  her  start.  A  keen  sense  of  her  posi- 
tion came  over  her.  She  cast  a  frightened  look  on  the  pulpit, 
and  then  sunk  back  pale  and  nervous,  her  trembling  hand 
wandering  in  search  of  her  mother's.  The  old  lady  looked  on 
her  with  fond  grief,  whispered  soothing  words,  and  tenderly 
pressed  the  little  hand  that  so  imploringly  besought  her  pity. 
Still  the  poor  girl  trembled,  and  shrunk  in  her  seat  as  if  she 
would  have  crept  away  from  every  human  eye. 

The  minister  arose,  his  face  looked  calm,  but  the  paper  which 
contained  the  young  girl's  confession  shook  violently  in  his  hands 
as  he  unrolled  it.  Julia  knew  that  it  was  her  duty  to  arise.  She 
put  forth  her  hand,  grasped  the  carved  work  of  the  seat,  and 


THE  OLD    DEACON.  49 

stood  upright  till  the  reading  was  finished,  staring,  all  the  time, 
wildly,  in  the  pastor's  face,  as  if  she  wondered  what  it  could  all 
be  about.  She  sat  down  again,  pressed  a  hand  over  her  eyes, 
and  seemed  asking  God  to  give  her  more  strength. 

The  minister  descended  from  the  pulpit,  for  there  was  yet  to 
be  another  ceremony :  a  baptism  of  the  infant.     That  gentle, 
errino;  girl  was  to  go  up  with  the  child  of  her  shame,  that  it 
might  be  dedicated  to  God  before  the  congregation.    She  arose 
with  touching  calmness,  took  the  babe  from  her  mother's  arms, 
and  stepped  into  the  aisle.     She  wavered  at  first,  and  a  keen 
sense  of  shame  dyed  her  face,  neck,  and  very  hands,  with  a  pain- 
ful flush  of  crimson,  but  as  she  passed  the  pew  where  young 
Lee  was  sitting,  an  expression  of  proud  anguish  came  to  her 
face,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  walked  steadily  forward 
to  the  communion-table,  in  front  of  her  father's  seat.  There  was 
not  a  tearless  eye  in  that  whole  congregation.  Aged,  stern  men, 
bowed  their  heads  to  conceal  the  sympathy  betrayed  there. 
Young  girls— careless,  light-hearted  creatures,  who, never  dream- 
ing of  the  frailty  of  their  own  natures,  had  reviled  the  fallen  girl, 
now  wept  and  sobbed  to  see  her  thus  publicly  humbled.  Young 
Lee  became  powerfully  agitated;  his  breast  heaved,  his  face 
flushed  hotly,  then  turned  very  pale,  and  at  last  he  started  up, 
flung  open  the  pew  door,  and  hurried  up  the  aisle  with  a  disor- 
dered and  unequal  step. 

"What  name?"  inquired  the   pastor,  bending  toward  the 
young  mother,  as  he  took  the  child  from  her  arms. 

Before  she  had  time  to  speak,  Lee  stood  by  her  side,  and  an- 
swered in  a  loud,  steady  voice  :   "  That  of  his  father,   James 

Lee  !" 

The  trembling  of  that  poor  girl's  frame  was  visible  through 
the  whole  house,  her  hand  dropped  on  the  table,  and  she  leaned 
heavily  on  it  for  support,  but  did  not  look  up.  The  minister 
dipped  his  hand  in  the  antique  China  bowl,  laid  it  upon  the  babe's 
forehead,  and  in  a  clear  voice  pronounced  the  name.  A  faint 
*  cry  broke  from  the  child,  as  the  cold  drops  fell  on  his  face.  The 
sound  seemed  to  arouse  all  the  hitherto  unknown  and  mysterious 
feehngs  of  paternity  slumbering  in  the  young  father's  heart.. 
His  eye  kindled,  his  cheek  glowed,  and  impulsively  he  extended 
his  arms  and  received  the  infant.  His  broad  chest  heaved  be- 
neath its  tiny  form,  and  his  eyes  seemed  fascinated  by  the  deep 


50  THE   OLD    DEACON. 

blue  orbs,  wliich  the  little  creature  raised  smilingly  and  full  of 
wonder  to  his  face.  Lee  bore  his  son  down  the  aisle,  laid  him 
gently  in  his  astonished  grandmother's  lap,  and  returned  to  the 
pulpit  again.  Julia  still  had  moved  a  little,  and  overcome  with 
agitation,  leaned  heavily  against  the  railing  of  the  pulpit-stairs. 
Lee  bent  his  head,  and  whispered  a  few  earnest  words,  and  held 
forth  his  hand.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  like  one  bewildered, 
gave  a  doubtful,  troubled  look  into  his  eyes,  and  laid  her  hand 
in  his.  He  drew  her  gently  to  the  table,  and  in  a  firm,  respect- 
ful voice,  requested  the  minister  to  commence  the  marriage  ser- 
vice. 

The  pastor  looked  puzzled  and  irresolute.  The  whole  pro- 
ceeding was  so  unexpected  and  strange,  that  even  he  lost  I 
presence  of  mind.  "  A  publishment  is  necessary  to  our  lav. .  ' 
he  said,  at  length,  casting  a  look  on  the  deacon,  but  the  old  man 
remained  motionless,  with  his  hands  clasped  over  the  railing,  and 
his  face  bowed  upon  them.  Thinking  him  too  much  agitated  to 
speak,  and  uncertain  of  his  duty,  the  divine  lifted  his  voice  and 
demanded  if  any  one  present  had  aught  to  say  against  a  mar- 
riage between  the  two  persons  standing  before  him. 

Every  face  in  that  church  was  turned  on  the  dC'Hcon,  but  he 
remained  silent  and  motionless,  so  the  challenge  was  unanswered, 
and  the  minister  felt  compelled  to  proceed  with  the  ceremony, 
for  he  remembered  what  was  at  first  forgotten,  that  the  pair 
had  been  published,  according  to  law,  months  before,  when  Lee 
had,  without   giving  reason,  refused  to  fulfill  his  contract. 

The  brief,  but  impressive  ceremony,  was  soon  over,  and  with 
an  expression  of  more  true  happiness,  than  had  ever  been  wit- 
nessed on  his  fine  features  before,  Lee  conducted  his  wife  to  her 
mother,  and  placed  himself  respectfully  by  her  side.  The  poor 
bride  was  scarcely  seated,  when  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  which  seemed  as  if 
it  never  would  be  checked. 

The  congregation  went  out.  The  young  people  gathered 
about  the  doors,  talking  over  the  late  strange  scene,  while  a 
few  members  lingered  behind,  to  speak  with  the  deacon's  wife 
before  they  left  the  church.  Lee  and  his  companions  stood 
in  their  pew,  looking  anxiously  toward  the  old  man.  There 
was  something  unnatural  in  his  motionless  position,  which 
sent  a  thrill  throuo:h  the  matron's  heart,  and  chained  her  to  the 


TEIFLES.  51 

floor,  BB  if  she  had  suddenly  turned  to  marble.  The  minister 
came  down  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  advancing  to  the  old  man,  laid 
his  band  kindly  upon  the  withered  fingers  clasped  over  the  rail- 
ing; be  turned  very  pale,  for  the  hand  which  he  touched  was 
cold  and  stiffened  in  death.  The  old  man  was  feeble  with  grief, 
and  when  young  Lee  appeared  before  him,  his  heart  broke  amid* 
the  rush  of  its  strong  feelings  !  % 


-«•»- 


TRIFLES, 


A  FLOWER,  given  by  one  we  love, 

Is  prized  far  more  than  sparkling  gems, 
A  smile,  a  look,  a  gentle  word, 

Outweighs  the  costliest  diadems. 
Then  why  should  we  those  trifles  call, 
Which  make  the  sum  of  life,  the  all 
That  man  doth  live  for  here  below, 
And  make  him  joy  or  sorrow  know  1 


A  tear  upon  the  loved  one's  cl:eek, 

Will  make  the  haughtiest  spirit  quaii, 
A  look  of  pain,  or  grief,  or  care, 

Will  turn  the  rose  to  lily  pale. 
Then  why  should  we  those  trifles  callj 
Which  make  the  sum  of  life,  the  all 
That  man  doth  live  for  here  below, 
(Vnd  make  him  joy  or  sorrow  know  1 


I 


A  look  of  scorn  hatli  led  to  hate, 

A  kindly  smile  hath  won  a  heart, 
The  one  leaves  but  unhappiness, 

The  other's  joy  shall  ne'er  depart. 
Then  why  should  we  those  trifles  call, 
Which  make  the  sum  of  life,  the  all 
That  man  doth  live  for  here  below, 
And  make  him  joy  or  sorrow  know  1 


LOVE    ON, 


BY     ELIZA     COOK. 


Love  on,  love  on,  the  soul  must  have  a  shrine — 

The  rudest  breast  must  find  some  hallowed  spot: 
The  God  who  formed  us  left  no  spark  divine 

In  him  who  dwells  on  earth  and  loveth  not. 
Devotion's  links  compose  a  sacred  chain 

Of  holy  brifi^htness  and  unmeasured  length  ; 
The  world  with  selQsh  rust  and  stain 

May  mar  its  beauty,  but  not  touch  its  strength. 

Love  on,  love  on— ay,  even  though  the  heart 

We  fondly  build  on,  proveth  like  the  sand  : 
Though  one  by  one,  faith's  corner-stones  depart. 

And  even  hope's  last  pillar  fails  to  stand  : 
Though  we  may  dread  the  lips  we  once  believed, 

And  know  their  falsehood  shadows  all  our  days, 
Who  would  not  sooner  trust  and  be  deceived 

Than  own  the  mean,  cold  spirit  that  betrays  % 

Love  on,  love  on,  though  we  may  live  to  see 

The  dear  face  wither  in  its  circling  shroud ; 
Though  dark  and  dense  the  cloud  of  death  may  be, 

Affection's  glory  yet  shall  pierce  the  cloud. 
The  truest  spell  that  Heaven  can  give  to  lure, 

The  sweetest  prospect  Mercy  can  bestow, 
Is  the  bless'd  thought  that  bids  the  soul  be  sure 

'Twill  meet  above  the  things  it  loved  below. 

Love  on,  love  on— Creation  breathes  the  words; 

Their  mystic  music  even  dwells  around  ; 
The  strain  is  echoed  by  unnumbered  chords. 

And  gentlest  bosoms  yield  the  fullest  sound. 
As  flowers  keep  springing,  tho'  their  dazzling  bloom 

Is  oft  put  forth  for  worms  to  feed  upon, 
So  hearts,  though  wrung  by  traitors  and  the  tomb, 

Shall  still  be  precious,  and  shall  still  live  on. 


JEANNE    D»AEC. 


A    HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


There  was  joy  and  revelry  at  the  Court  of  Charles  VI.  ;  gay 
pennons  were  flyincr ;  the  bells  sent  forth  a  merry  peal,  while 
peans  of  praise  ascended  from  the  old  cathedral,  that  a  pnnce 
was  born  to  France  !  Charles  received  the  congratulaticrns  of 
the  courts  with  dignity  and  grace,  deeply  sympathizing  in  their 
feelings  of  joy.  The  first  wish  of  his  heart  was  gratified  in  the 
birth  of  a  son  and  heir— the  second,  that  his  much  loved  consort 

was  in  safety. 

After  the  Court  had  broken  up  in  the  evening,  Charles  trod 
with  a  grave  and  measured  step  the  galleries  and  anti-rooms, 
until  he^'came  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  Opening  it, 
he  threw  off  his  court  dress,  and  ringing  a  silver  bel],  said  to  a 
page  in  waiting :  "  Tell  Mon.  Casini,  I  am  ready  to  receive  him." 

A  person  entered  from  a  private  door,  tall  and  stately  in  fig- 
ure, apparently  from  sixty  to  sixty-five  years  of  age,  dressed  in 
a  long  robe  of  black  velvet,  with  a  cap  of  the  same  on  his  head. 
His  fece  was  pale  with  thought,  the  forehead  high  and  bald, 
while  the  eyes,  deep  set  and  dark,  glowed  with  the  fight  of 
enthusiasm  and  truth. 

Charles  waited  a  moment,  and  then  said  :  "  The  Prince's  natal 
star,  how  is  it  ?     Have  you  cast  his  horriscope  ?" 

« I  was  inspecting  the  heavens  with  much  mterest,  when  you 
sent  for  m.e.  Sire,  to  see  if  it  were  the  same  as  last  evening.  The 
young  infant's  star  then  rose  beautifully,  and  increased  in  bril- 
liancy as  it  approached  the  meridian.  I  have  calculated  the 
horriscope,  the  dechnation  and  direct  ascension  of  the  surround- 
ing planets  with  care." 

«  Do  any  malign  influences  threaten  it  ?" 

"  None,  Sire,  excepting " 

"  Speak  fearlessly,  Casini." 


54  JEANNE    D'ARC. 

"  I  do  not  know  fear,  Sire,  when  elucidating  these  sacred  mys- 
teries— excepting  the  adverse  influence  which  your  star  will  ex- 
ercise over  it." 

"  Oh,  I  recollect !  at  the  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  my  star 
looses  its  lustre.     I  will  trust  it." 

The  astrologer  looked  attentively  at  Charles,  then  said: 

''  There  is  amid  the  astronomical  lore  of  my  family,  this  old 
distich,  which  has  not  yet  been  fulfilled,  but  w^hich  was  realized 
last  night  in  the  planetary  destiny  of  the  young  Prince.  Observe 
the  conjunction,  Sire  !  (1.)  The  planet  that  rises  on  Jupiter's 
right  (4)  of  Capricorn,  close  by  the  equator  line,  (2)  and  reaches 
the  zenith  at  noontide  of  night,  (5)  will  rule  the  bright  star  that 
there  dare  appear,  (3)  and  enters  its  course  in  the  zodiac  sign, 
(3)  with  love  and  fame,  and  an  early-dressed  bier.  These  cal- 
culations and  predictions  were  made  two  hundred  years  since, 
by  Casini,  the  Hermit." 

"  Does  the  early  death,"  said  Charles,  "  refer  to  the  Prince, 
or  to  the  individual  at  whose  birth  the  star  near  Jupiter,  pre- 
sided?" 

"  The  latter,  Sire.  Oh  !  it  is  a  beautiful  planet !  pure  and 
brilliant  in  its  light,  fixed  far  above  in  illimitable  space,  yet  rul- 
ing in  love,  the  destiny  of  mortals  !" 

"  My  son  ?" 

"  Yours,  Sire  !"  replied  Casini.  "  But  can  I  not  be  spared? 
every  moment  now,  is  important." 

Masters  in  every  branch  of  education,  and  in  every  elegant 
exercise  and  accomplishment,  were  provided  for  the  Dauphin 
Charles.  He  gave  his  attention  to  them  with  considerable 
energy  and  perseverance.  Poetry,  which  then  began  to  excite 
considerable  interest  in  France,  and  the  Troubadours,  who  sang 
and  recited  this  poetry,  with  many  other  soft  luxuries,  exercised 
a  strong  influence  on  his  fervid  imagination.  The  King,  his 
father,  negotiated  with  Yolands,  Queen  of  the  Two  Sicilies,  for 
the  hand  of  her  daughter,  Maria  of  Aujou,  in  marriage.  This 
negotiation  was  averse  to  the  wishes  of  Charles.  Love,  as 
dressed  in  poetry  and  romance,  had  thrown  around  him  her 
brightest  spells,  her  sw^eetest  visions,  and  it  was  a  rude  awaken- 
ing, when  his  bride,  plain  in  person  and  manners,  though  rich  in 
possessions,  whs  presented  to  him. 

The  marriage  of  the  Dauphin  with  Maria,  of  Anjou,  was  cele- 


\ 


EANNE   d'aRC  55 

brated  with  great  pomp  and  splendor.  Festivities,  tournaments, 
and  every  manly  exercise,  with  rural  sports  for  the  peasantry, 
occupied  the  time  for  a  month.  The  Dauphin,  unrivalled  in 
every  accomplishment,  became  a  great  favorite  with  the  court. 
His  person  fine,  his  manners  frank  and  graceful,  his  temper  gay, 
every  little  courtesy  of  life  in  liim  seemed  doubly  charming. 

Eumor  at  this  time  gave  some  uneasiness  at  court,  respecting 
the  movements  of  the  Burgundian  party.    An  intercepted  letter 
had  been  received,  developing  a  plan  of  treachery,  which  made 
the  king  scowl  with  anger  and  revenge,  and  was  fuel  to  the 
jealousy  always  existing  between  himself  and   cousin.     The 
Dauphin  strove  to  allay  these  bitter  passions,  and  induced  some 
ot  the  nobles  to  think  with  him.    The  king  seemed  to  acquiesce 
in  these  friendly  feelings,  and  proposed,  as  testimony  of  re- 
:newed  confidence  and  regard,   that  the   Duke   of  Burgundy 
should  be  invited  with  whatever  train  he  chose,  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  the  court,  and  join  the  festivities  of  the  hunting  season. 
Queen  Yolanda,  a  woman  of  masculine  mind,  and  great  pene- 
tration, asked  the  king,  if  the  Dutchess  and  their  distinguished 
son  LeBon,  would  be  of  the  party?     The  king  replied,  he 
hoped  so,  and  trusted  every  mark  of  respect  w^ould  be  tendered 
them.     A  short  time  after  this,  Queen  Yolanda,  wishing  to  ask 
permission  for  herself  and  Maria  to  spend  a  few  days  at  the 
monastery  of  St.  Catharine's,  for  the  performance  of  some  reli- 
gious  ceremonies,  entered  the  anti-room  next  the  king's  apart- 
ment. Not  finding  a  page  in  waiting,  she  was  leaving  the  room, 
when  she  overheard  Du  Chatel  exclaim  :  "  The  deed  were  bet- 
ter done,  Sire,  on  the  road,  than  at  the  hunt.     This  hand  is  at 
your  service  to  strike  the  blow." 

Near  the  small  village  of  La  Mannieul,  a  bridge  of  some  length 
had  been  thrown  over  a  rapid  stream,  easily  swollen  by  the 
rain.  On  one  side  of  this  bridge  was  a  piece  of  wood,  on  the 
other  a  mountain  shutting  out  every  ray  of  light.  Clouds, 
heavy  with  rain,  hung  in  the  dark  sky,  the  wind  moaned  as  if  in 
mortal  agony,  and  pools  of  water  stood  in  indented  places,  when 
four  horsemen  came  riding  abreast,  engaged  in  conversation, 
their  horses'  hoofs  striking  the  bridge  simultaneously.  They 
were  confronted  by  four  others,  who,  wheeling  suddenly  from 
out  the  wood,  and"  each  one  choosing  his  antagonist,  pressed 
them  with  fury  ;  the  taller  of  the  party  exclaiming,  "  I  have  thee 


5G  JEANNE    d'aRC. 

at  bay  now,  <-liirk  Duke  of  Burgundy  !"  Blows  quick  and  sharp 
fell  on  the  night  air  ! — a  heavy  fall ! — a  groan  ! — another  and 
another! — when  a  lliirLl  party  entered  the  bridge,  their  mirth 
scarcely  chocked  by  the  sound  of  arms.  '^  What  have  we  here  ?'' 
said  the  Dauphin,  returning  with  several  gentlemen  from  a 
hunting  excureion  of  some  days.  "  Different  game  from  deer,  I 
trow  'f 

"  Game  to  suit  the  king's  palate;"  said  Tennigui  Du  Chatek 
"  A  boar's  head,  (referring  to  the  Burgundian  coat  of  arms,) 
for  the  first  dish." 

"  Now,  Heaven  forfend  that  such  a  foul  deed  should  be  per- 
petrated !"  exclaimed  the  Dauphin.  "  My  lather's  nanie,  too, 
maligned !  Measure  your  words.  Sir  Knight !  My  blood  is 
up  !     I  will  answer  for  my  actions  to  the  king !" 

Grief  and  anger  raged  tumultuously  in  the  breast  of  Philip 
Le  Bon,  for  the  murder  of  his  father.  These  were  soon  merged, 
however,  in  a  strong  insatiable  thirst  for  revenge.  But  how  to 
gratify  it :  he  took  an  oath  never  to  occupy  that  father's  seat  in 
his  ancestral  halls,  never  in  the  councils  of  the  Provinces,  till 
that  father's  death  was  aveno'ed.  But  how  was  this  to  be  done  ? 
His  feelings  of  patriotism  revolted  from  taking  over  the  armies 
he  commanded,  to  the  Enghsh  ;  although  this  seemed  the  only 
way,  and  had  been  pointed  out  by  his  officers,  who  sternly 
demanded  revenge  for  their  brave  leader's  death. 

The  English  were  introduced  into  France,  and  the  treaty  of 
Arras,  follovred  by  the  ignominious  treaty  of  Trojle,  a  short 
time  after,  disinheriting  the  Dauphin  and  placing  the  French 
crosvn  upon  the  head  of  an  English  monarch.  Two  years  after, 
diaries  YL,  imbecile  in  mind,  morose  in  temper,  closed  his  hfe, 
leaving  a  stain  upon  his  name,  and  consequences  to  his  son  long 
to  be  regretted. 

Charles  had  now  a  miniature  kingdom  and  but  few  subjects. 
He  was  obliged  to  remove  his  court  for  security,  to  Chinon,  on 
the  south  side  of  the  Loire.  The  country  round  was  very  beau- 
tiful, including  Torrain,  called  the  garden  of  France,  and  abound- 
ing in  the  richest  productions  of  the  climate.  Henry  V.,  the 
invader,  was  dead,  but  Paris  and  the  Northern  Provinces  w^ere 
held  in  charge  for  the  young  prince,  Henry  VI.  Charles,  shorn 
of  half  his  glory,  felt  deeply  his  altered  position,  but  he  had  the 
^visdom,  perhaps  an  intuitive  faculty,  of  choosing  his  counsellors 


JEANNE   D  ARC.  57 


wisely,  and  of  attaching  them  to  bis  person  and  interests,  in 
some  measure,  perhaps,  by  tb®  charm  of  his  manner,  the  respect 
and  reverence  he  always  testilied  to  gray  hairs.     His  love  of 
chivalry,  of  poetry,  and  the  fine  arts,  with  his  personal  endow- 
ments, and  a  certain  romance  thrown  around  him,  as  a  disin- 
herited  prince,    created  much   interest  among   the   European 
courts,  and  drev/  around  him  not  only   younger  sons  of  the 
nobiUty,  but  the  greatest  captains  of  his  age.     But,  however 
happy  in  his  counsellors,  it  was  Yolanda,  his  mother  and  coad- 
jutor, who  was  his  firmest  friend,  and  most  zealous  adviser. 
She  seemed  to  read  the  mind  of  Charles  ;  his  indolent,  imagina- 
tive, confiding  character  ;  his  need  of  mental  stimulousto  perform 
any'great  or  noble  deed,  and  the  beneficial  influence  a  high  and 
gifted  female  mind  would  esercise  over  him.     She  urged  her 
daughter  to  exert  this  influence,  to  arouse  the  king  to  repel  the 
incessant  invasions  of  the  English.     But  Maria,  though  finely 
educated,  of  strict  principles,  gentle  and  affectionate,  had  never 
been  loved  by  Charles,  although  her  conduct  had  secured  his  es- 
teem.    His  heart  must  be  touched  through  the  medium  of  his 
imagination,  and  Maria  possessed  neither  the  charm  of  conver- 
sational talent,  or  any  particular  grace  of  person  or  manner. 
Love  of  country,  like  a  threefold  chord,  bound  them  together, 
inducing  sacrifices,  particularly  in  the  life  of  Maria,  which  seems 
more  like  a  tale  of  fiction  and  romance,  than  history. 

The  Shepherdess  of  Domeri,  paced  rapidly  the  little  path  her 
steps  had  marked  along  the  wild  rushing  stream  that  intercepted 
the  valley.  Her  soul  was  fired  with  indignation  at  the  oppres- 
sion exercised  on  the  peasantry  of  her  native  village.  Some 
more  flagrant  instance  of  tyranny  had  now  been  perpetrated, 
and  the  rumor  that  the  English  were  going  to  besiege  Orleans, 
the  principal  stronghold  of  Charles,  sank  deep  in  her  heart. 
Love  of  country  and  a  holy  enthusiasm,  glowed  in  her  bosom  ; 
not  an  enthusiasm  caught  from  external  circumstances,  a  light 
to  be  extinguished,  but  a  Uving  principle,  originating  in  pure 
and  noble  elements  of  character,  and  leading  to  deeds  of  high 

renown  1 

The  afternoon  passed  aWay,  and  the  silence  of  night  rested  ou 
everything  around.  Jeanne  D'Arc  gazed  upon  the  light  star 
of  her  nativity,  with  feelings  of  religious  idolatry.  Scarcely  a 
hamlet  in  France  at  this  time,  but  felt  an  interest  in  the  aspect 


58  JEANNE    U  ARC. 

of  the  heavens,  and  would  give  a  month's  hospitality  to  an  Ijn- 
erant  astrologer,  for  predicting  a  favorable  destiny  to  the  infant 
child.  Jeanne  knew  the  current  of  her  life  was  not  to  flow  in  a 
calm  and  peaceful  stream,  but  wild  and  rushing,  fertilizing  the 
soil  o'er  which  it  flowed,  and  bearing  on  its  bosom  blessings  to 
others.  She  thought  on  enslaved  France — the  crimes  and 
woes  those  silent  watches  of  the  night  looked  down  upon — and 
apostrophizing  her  own  particular  star,  as  it  rose  fair  and  bright 
in  ilhmituble  space,  she  cried  :  "  Let  France  be  redeemed,  and  I 
am  \^  illing  to  pass  away  and  be  forgotten  !  Aye,  to  be  doubly 
sacriticed  were  it  possible  !"  She  laid  down  on  the  green  sward, 
ner  eyes  fixed  upon  her  beautiful  planet,  when  sleep  fell  upon 
them.  A  celestial  visitant  from  another  world,  hovered  over 
her  with  wings  of  silvery  brightness,  with  aspect  of  peace  and 
love,  presenting  to  her  mind,  now  disencumbered  from  the  body, 
visions  of  future  glory  and  beauty  !  "  Pursue  the  path  where 
inspiration  leads,"  was  whispered  in  her  soul's  ear.  "  Thy  sacri- 
fice i.s  accepted, thy  destiny  accomplished,  and  France  redeemed!" 
The  Shepherdess  of  Domeri,  (a  shepherdess  no  longer,)  sprang 
up.  No  look  of  fond  remembrance  was  given  to  the  peaceful 
valley.  "  Onward  !  onward  !"  was  her  motto.  The  glowdng 
earnestness,  the  enthusiasm  of  her  character,  imparted  itself  to 
other  kindred  minds,  till  patriotism,  like  a  tongue  of  living  fire, 
rested  on  each  follower  of  that  little  band,  as  they  w^ent  forth  to 
victory  or  death  ! 

Jr.  ihe  court  of  Charles  was  heard  with  mingled  joy  and  w^on- 
-ler,  '.ne  conquests  won  by  that  fair  and  youthful  leader,  with 
Ler  commission  from  above  to  deliver  France.  Her  approach 
to  Chinon  with  a  large  army  flushed  with  success,  was  hailed 
vith  shouts  of  rejoicing.  An  embassy  had  been  sent  to  Charles 
from  the  towns  and  villages  conquered,  acknowledging  their 
allegiance.  Queen  Yolanda  seemed  to  comprehend  immediately 
the  high  and  devoted  character  of  Jeanne  D'Arc;  in  truth  and 
purity  of  life  so  severely  just,  so  beautifully  righteous,  her  love 
of  country,  so  deep  in  afl'ection,  so  strong,  yet  so  tender,  so  wide 
and  so  womanly  !  She  staid  not  to  ask  if  her  commission  was 
from  on  hiu'h,  bearinc/  the  sio:net  of  heaven — she  knew  it  was 
orthodox  to  her  who  received  it,  and  would  be  crowned  with 
Ibe  palm  of  victory ! 

•j'he  king,  shaking  ofl"  his  indolence  and  indecision,  aroused 


JEANNE    d'aRC.  rn 

59 

himself  from  his  inglorious  ease,  bowed  to  the  energy  of  truth 
and  beauty,  and  thought,  with  others,  that  patriotism  never  before 
had  such  an  advocate.     Multitudes  thronged  to  her  standard. 
Her  divine  commission  was  fully  acknowledged.     Accoutred 
in  armor  raid  girt  with  the  sword,  made  mysteriously  sacred  in 
the  eyes  of  her  soldiers,  by  former   conquests,  she   entered 
Orleans.     Nothing  could  withstand  the  energy  of  her  power,  or 
circumvent  her  knowledge  of  military  tactics.  She  headed  every 
sally  made  on  the  English  out-posts,  and  in  the  decisive  engage- 
ment seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life,  her   long  v/hite  plume 
always  seen  where  the  strife  was  the  hottest.     A  week  from 
this  time  the  city  was  won  and  the  English  in  full  retreat.  Thus 
far  every  effort  had  proved  eminently  successful,  but  the  strong 
wild  wish  of  her  heart  now  was,  that  Charles  should  be  crowned 
at  Rheims,  that  kingly  old  city,  made  sacred  in  the  remembrance 
of  all  true  Frenchmen  by  the  holy  associations  connected  with 
it.     Many  persons,  and  among  them  Charles   and  the  brave 
Dubois,  tried   to  dissuade  her  from  the  extravagant  project. 
From  Chinon  to  Rheims,  every  town  was  in  possession  of  the 
English,  and  they  were  not  willing  to  accept  the  self  sacrifice 
she  so  generously  offered. 

But  what  was  once  enthusiasm  in  Jeanne,  was  now  inspira- 
tion. An  inspiration  derived  from  above,  yet  exercising  itself 
not  only  through  the  affections,  but  through  the  reason,°the  in- 
tellect, the  imagination  ;  not  arbitrarily,  but  in  accordance  with 
the  powers  of  the  mind,  by  a  mode  of  operation  as  constant  and 
natural  as  the  gravitation  of  planets,  or  the  chemical  attraction 
of  atoms. 

The  expedition  to  Rheims  was  undertaken,  and  in  defiance  of 
fatigue,  danger,  and  difficulties  few  have  encountered,  was 
crowned  with  success.  Her  followers  devoted  themselves  to  her 
guidance  with  a  conviction  of  success,  that  perhaps  will  never 
be  known  again.  Whether  angel  or  prophetess,  they  cared  not, 
she  was  the  deliverer  of  France,  invincible  in  battle,  a  minister- 
ing spirit  of  mercy  and  peace  around  the  wounded  and  the  dying. 

At  Rheims  the  coronation  took  place.  As  Charles  kneeled 
at  the  altar,  Jeanne  stood  beside  him,  leaning  on  her  snow-white 
banner,  spotted  with  the  Fleur  de  lis,  of  France,  bearing  the 
simple  inscription,  "  Jesu  Maria."  Inspiration  sat  on  her  brow. 
AA  ith  head  bowed,  with  resolution  and  sensibility  in  every  fea- 


(30  JEANNE    d'aRC. 

ture,  she  gazed  upon  the  august  ceremouy,  then  throwing  her- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  king,  bathed  in  tears,  she  exclaimed  :  "  My 
mission  is  accomplished,  France  is  free,  and  the  king  triumph- 
ant !" 

What  did  Charles  feel,  under  this  hcly  enthusiasm — these 
deep  obligations  ?  and  from  a  being  self  sacrificing — with  less 
of  earth  tlian  heaven? 

Jeanne  now  earnestly  wished  to  return  to  her  native  village, 
but  this  wish  was  warmly  opposed  by  the  court,  especially  by 
the  Queens,  Yolanda  and  Maria.  They  saw  the  renovating  influ- 
ence of  her  pure  and  devoted  character  on  the  king,  an  influence 
not  likely  to  fade,  uniting,  as  it  did,  the  best  feelings  of  his 
heart  and  the  highest  flights  of  his  flmcy.  Eiches,  and  honors, 
and  courtly  favors,  all  waited  upon  Jeanne,  and  were  pressed 
upon  her  acceptance.  She  only  asked,  in  her  meekness  and 
moderation,  that  her  native  town  might  be  released  from  taxa- 
tion, and  to  this  day  the  request  stands  recorded,  a  testimony 
of  her  high  patriotism. 

The  strong  sentiment  of  royalty  she  cherished  for  the  king, 
and  the  friendship  of  the  Queen,  made  her  present  hfe  bright 
and  beautiful.  Jeanne  felt  that  she  was  the  savior  of  her  coun- 
try, that  all  loved  and  reverenced  her,  and  she  blessed  God  for 
these  mercies.  But  she  resisted  these  attractions — perhaps  too 
the  pleadings  of  her  own  heart — and  resolved  with  unwavering 
firmness  to  seek  the  shades  of  retirement. 

Before  this  design  could  be  put  in  execution,  however,  the 
dark  and  hasty  tragedy  of  Eouen,  took  place,  wliich  not  only 
clothed  a  nation  in  mourning  and  electrified  Europe,  but  through 
succeeding  ages,  will  be  remembered  with  regret  and  sorrow 

Allthatwas  mortalof  Jeanne  D'Arc  was  consumed  by  fire.  Her 
expiring  words  were,  "  Jesu  Maria,  deliverer  of  the  captive,  re- 
ceive my  spirit !"  The  beautiful  planet  of  her  nativity  still  rides 
triumphant  through  the  heavens,  and  may  we  not  hope  that  in 
the  firmament  above,  her  spirit,  amid  the  just  made  perfect, 
shines  a  star  of  no  small  mao-nitude  ?  J.  D.  F. 


THE  DESTINIES  OE  POETEY. 


(•^  SANSLATED  FROM  THE  FEE  NCR   OF   LAMARTINE.) 


S- 


._<.,  lono;  as  man  himself  endm^es,  can  man's  noblest  faculty 
,.e.nsL  ?     What,  after  all,  is  poetry  ?     Like  all  else  in  us  that  is 
iivine,  it  cannot  be  defined  by  one  word  nor  by  a  thousand.    It 
iS  the.  incarnation  of  the  deepest  things  of  the  heart,  and  the 
most  godlike  things  of  the  intellect:  of  the  most  magnificent 
orio:ma]s  of  external  nature  and  its  most  melodious  sounds.  It  is  at 
once  sentiment  and  sensation,  spirit  and  matter  ;  and  therefore 
it  is  that  complete  language,  that  peculiar  language,  which  satis- 
fies trie  entire  man ;  for  the  intellect,  ideas ;  for  the  soul,  senti- 
ment;   images  for   the  imagination,   and  melody  for  the  ear. 
Therefore  iUs,  that  this  language,  when  fitly  spoken,  transfixes 
man  ike  the  thunderbolt,  overcomes  him  with  internal  convic- 
tion and  unreasoned  proofs,  or  intoxicates  like  a  love-potion, 
and  lulls  him  motionless  and  charmed,  hke  a  cradled  infant,  to 
the  loving  accents  of  a  mother's  voice.     This  also  is  the  reason 
why  man  can  neither  produce  nor  bear  much  poetry  ;  for,  laying 
hold  of  the  entire  man,  by  the  soul  and  the  sense,  and  exalting 
at  once  his  two-fold  powers,  the  intellect  by  thought,  the  sense 
Dy  feehng,  it  exhausts  him,  it  soon  overwhelms  him,  like  every 
excess  of  pleasure,  with  voluptuous  weariness,  and  makes  him 
pour  forth  in  a  few  fines,  and  in  a  few  moments,  all  the  life  and 
sentient  power  that  exist  in  his  two-fold  being.  Prose  addresses 
itselt  only  to  the  intellect ;  poetry  at  once  to  the  intellect  and 
the  sensibilities.     This  language,  mysterious,  instinctive  as  it  is, 
or  rather  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  instinctive  and  mysterious 
will  never  die.     It  is  not,  as  they  have  not  ceased  to   declare, 
despite  the  denials  of  successive  ages,  it  is  not  merely  tlie  lan- 
guage of  a  people's  infancy,  the  stammerings  of  human  intelli- 
gence; it  is  the  language  of  all  the  ages  of  mankind,  7iaive  and 


62  THE    DESTINIES    OF    POETRY. 

simple,  when  at  the  cradle  of  the  nations,  loquacious  and  mar- 
vellous as  a  nurse  beside  the  child's  pillow ;  sentimental  £.nd  pas- 
toral among  young  and  pastoral  nations ;  warlike  and  epic  among 
warlike  and  conquering  tribes ;  mystical,  lyric,  prophetic,  oi 
aphoristic,  in  the  theocracies  of  Egypt  or  Judea;  grave,  philo- 
sophical, and  corrupting,  in  the  advanced  civilization  of  Rome, 
Florence,  or  of  Louis  XIV. ;  frenzied  and  clamorous  in  periods 
of  convulsion  and  ruin,  as  in  '93 ;  fresh,  melancholy,  doubting, 
timid,  and  bold,  all  together,  as  at  present :  afterwards,  in  the 
old  age  of  nations,  sad,  gloomy,  grieving  and  discouraged,  as 
the  people  itself;  now  breathing  in  its  verses  doleful  presenti- 
ments, fantastic  reveries  of  the  world's  last  catastrophe,  and 
again  the  firm  and  divine  hopes  of  a  resurrection  for  humanity 
under  another  form.  Such  is  Poetry.  It  is  man  himself ;  it  is 
the  echo  from  within,  of  all  his  impressions ;  it  is  the  voice  of 
thinking  and  seeing  humanity,  caught  up  and  attuned  by  certain 
men,  more  truly  men  than  the  people — mens  divinior — and 
which  floats  above  this  tumultuous  and  commin2:led  noise  of 
generations  and  survives  them ;  witnessing  to  posterity  their 
sorrows  or  their  joys,  their  deeds  or  their  imaginings. 

One  day,  I  had  planted  my  tent  in  a  stony  field  where  grew 
a  few  knotty  and  stunted  olives,  under  the  w^alls  of  Jerusalem, 
a  few  hundred  feet  from  the  tower  of  David,  and  just  above  the 
fountain  of  Siloah,  which  still  flows  along  the  w^orn  pavement  of 
its  grotto,  near  the  tomb  of  the  poet-king  who  has  so  often  sung 
its  praise.  The  high,  black  terraces  which  once  supported  the 
temple  of  Solomon,  arose  on  my  left,  crowned  by  the  three  blue 
cupolas  and  the  light  and  airy  columns  of  the  mosque  of  Omar, 
which  now  stands  upon  the  ruins  of  Jehovah's  house.  The  city 
of  Jerusalem,  which  the  plague  was  then  ravaging,  was  flooded 
with  the  rays  of  a  blinding  sun,  thrown  back  from  its  thousand 
domes,  its  white  marbles,  its  towers  of  gilded  stone,  and  its  w\alls 
polished  by  time,  and  by  the  salt  winds  of  the  Dead  Sea.  Not 
a  sound  arose  from  its  interior — sileni  and  mournful  as  the  couch 
of  a  dying  man  ;  its  large  gates  opened,  and  jou.  saw  now  and 
then  the  white  turban  and  red  cloak  of  the  Arabian  soldier,  the 
useless  sentinel  of  those  abandoned  walls ;  nothing  entered,  noth- 
ing came  out.  Only  the  morning  wind  hfted  the  heaving  dust 
if  the  highway,  and  produced  for  a  moment  the  illusion  of  a 
caravan;  but  when  the  breath  of  wind  had  passed,  when  it  had 


THE    DESTINIES    OF    POETRY. 


63 


gone  to  expire  upon  the  battlements  of  the  Pican  tower,  or  on 
the  three  palm  trees  of  the  house  of  Caiaphas,  the  dust  fell  again 
— the  desert  was  once  more  visible  :  but  the  step  of  no  camel 
nor  mule  sounded  upon  the  pavement  of  the  wa}-.     Only  every 
quarter-hour,  the  two  embossed  doors  of  each  gate  of  Jerusalem, 
unfolded,  and  we  saw  pass  out  those  who  had  died  of  the  plague, 
^^hom  two  naked  slaves  bore  upon  biers  toward  the  tombs  scat- 
iered  around  us.     Sometimes  a  long  procession  of  Turks,  Arabs, 
Armenians,  and  Jews,  accompanied  the  dead,  and  drew  off,  sing- 
ing, among  the  low  olive  trees  ;  then  returned,  silently  and  slow, 
Into  the  city.     But  the  dead  were  oftener  unattended.     And 
when  the  two  slaves  had  dug  the  sand,  or  the  earth  of  the  hill- 
side, to  a  few  palms'  depth,  and  placed  the  dead  in  his  last 
couch,  they  sat  down  upon  the  mound  which  they  had  just 
raised,  divided  among  themselves  the  garm.ents  of  the  deceased, 
and  lighting  their  long  pipes,  they  smoked  in  silence  and  watched 
the  smoke  of  the  chibouks,  rising  in  light  blue  columns,  and 
vanishing  away  gracefully,  in  the  clear,  transparent  air  of  those 
autumn  days.     At  my  feet  stretched  away  the  valley  of  Jehosa- 
phat,  like  a  vast  sepulchre;  the  parched  Kedron,  strewn  with 
large  pebbles,  seemed  to  cut  it  as  with  a  white  furrow,  and  the 
two  hill-sides  that  enclosed  it  were  all  white  with  tombs  and 
with  the  sculptured  turbans — the  common  monument  of  the 
Osmanlis      A  httle  on  the  right,  the  hill  of  Ohvet  was  dimly 
seen,  and  between  the  scattered  chains  of  volcanic  cones  among 
the  mountains  of  Jericho,    and  of  Saint   Sabba,    the   horizon 
lengthened  itself  like  an  avenue  of  light  between  the  tops  of 
waving  cypresses ;  the   eye  sought  the   spot  involuntarily,  at- 
tracted by  the  blue,  hvid  lustre  of  the  Dead  Sea,  which  glistened 
at  the  foot  of  those  mountains  ;  while  behind,  the  blue  hills  of 
Arabia  Pettsea,  bounded  the  whole  scene.     But  to  hoimd  is  not 
the  word,  for  the  hills  seemed  transparent  as  chrystal ;  and  you 
saw,  or  thought  you  saw  beyond,  a  vague  and  undefined  hori- 
zon stretching  still  farther  away,  and  floating  on  the  ambient  ex- 
halations of  an  atmosphere  tinged  with  purple  and  glinimering 
red. 

It  was  noon :  the  hour  when  the  Muezzin  spies  the  sun  from 
the  highest  gallery  of  the  minaret,  and,  each  hour,  sings  forth 
the  hour  and  its  prayer — a  living,  animated  voice,  that  under 
stands  what  it  utters  and  what  it  sings ;  far  more  eloquent,  it 


64  THE    DESTINIES    OF    TOETRY. 

fieems  to  me,  than  the  stupid,  unconscious  voice  of  our  cathedral 
bells.  ]\[y  Arabs  had  given  the  goat  skin  of  barley  to  the  horses 
tied  here  and  there  around  my  tent.  AVith  their  feet  bound  to 
the  rings  of  iron,  the  noble  and  gentle  beasts  stood  motionless; 
their  heads  bent  down  and  covered  by  their  long,  scattered 
manes,  and  their  gray  coats  shining  and  smoking  beneath  the 
rays  of  a  vertical  sun.  M}'  men  gathered  under  the  shade  of 
the  largest  olive  ;  they  had  spread  their  Damascus  mats  upon 
the  ground,  and  now  smoked  in  company,  telling  tales  of  the 
desert,  or  singing  the  verses  of  Antar — Antar,  that  ideal  of  the 
wandering  Arab,  at  once  shepherd,  warrior  and  poet,  who  had 
described  the  desert  to  perfection  in  his  national  songs  ;  sublime 
as  Homer,  plaintive  as  Job,  sentimental  as  Theocritus,  philo- 
sophical as  Solomon.  His  verses  which  soothe  or  fire  the  ima- 
gination of  the  Arab  as  nmch  as  the  smoke  of  the  narguile, 
arose  in  guttural  sounds  from  the  animated  group  of  my  Sais ; 
iind  when  the  poet  touched  more  skilfully  or  profoundly,  the 
delicate  chord  of  those  wild,  but  susceptible  men,  you  heard  a 
slight  murmur  from  their  lips  ;  they  joined  their  hands,  raised 
them  above  their  ears,  and  bowing  the  head,  cried  one  after 
another,  Allah  !  Allah  !  Allah  !  A  few  paces  from  me,  a  3'oung 
Turkish  woman,  seated  on  one  of  those  little  monuments  of 
white  stone,  with  wh.ich  the  hill  sides  around  Jerusalem  are  so 
thickly  strewn,  was  bewailing  her  dead  husband.  She  seemed 
hardly  eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  age,  and  I  never  saw  so 
ravishing  an  image  of  grief.  Her  profile,  which  the  veil  thrown 
behind,  permitted  me  to  see,  had  all  the  purity  of  outline  in  the 
most  faultless  heads  of  the  Parthenon  ;  but  at  the  same  time, 
the  softness,  the  suavity,  and  graceful  languor  of  the  Asiatic 
women — a  beauty  infinitely  more  feminine,  more  voluptuous, 
more  fascinating  than  that  severe  and  somewhat  masculine 
beauty  of  the  Grecian  statues.  Her  hair,  of  a  sort  of  golden 
blond — a  color  much  esteemed  in  this  land  of  the  sun,  of  whose 
rays  it  is  a  kind  of  permament  reflection — her  hair,  unbound, 
fell  all  around  her  and  literallv  swept  the  oround.  Her  bosom 
was  entirelv  uncovered,  as  is  the  custom  with  the  women  in  this 
part  of  Arabia;  and  when  she  bent  over  to  embrace  the  sculp- 
tured turban,  or  to  place  her  ear  against  the  tomb,  her  naked 
breast  touched  the  earth  and  left  its  impress  in  the  sand, 
that  mould  from  the  beautiful  bosom  of  the  buried  Atala, 


THE   DESTINIES    OF    POETRY.  65 

the  dust  of  the  sepulchre  still  retained.     She  had  strewn  the 
tomb  and  the  earth  around  with  all  kinds  of  flowers ;  a  beautiful 
Damascus  carpet  lay  under  her  knees.     Tpon  tlio  carpet  were 
some  vases  of  flowers  and  a  light  basket  filled  with  figs   and 
{Trains  of  barley  ;  for  this  woman  was  about  to  pass  the  entire 
day  in  her  lamentation.     A  hole  dug  in  the  ground,  and  which, 
as  she  thought,  corresponded  with  the  ear  of  the  dead,  served 
to  bear  her  voice  to  that  other  world  where  he  slept,  whom  she 
had  come  to  visit.     From  time  to  time  she  bent  over  towards 
this  narrow  opening  ;  she  sang  verses,  interrupted  by  her  sobs ; 
then  she  applied  the  ear  once  more  as  if  she  waited  an  answer ; 
then  she  began  to  sing  again  and  weep.     I  tried  to  understand 
the  words  which  she  thus  uttered,  and  which  were  audible,  even 
w^here  I  sat,  but  my  Arab  drogman  could  not  gather  nor  trans- 
late them.     How  I  regret  that  loss  !     AYhat  depths  of  love  and 
grief;  what  sighs,  laden  with  the  very  life  of  two  souls  torn 
from  each  other's  fond  embrace,  must  those  confused  half-smoth- 
ered words  have  contained.    Oh  !  if  aught  could  wake  the  dead, 
it  were  such  accents  murmured  by  such  hps  ! 

At  two  steps  from  this  woman,  under  a  piece  of  black  cloth 
which  was  held  by  two  reeds  fastened  in  the  ground,  so  as  to 
form  a  protection  from  the  heat,  her  two  little  children  were 
playing  with  three  black  Abyssinian  slaves,  sitting,  like  then 
mistress,  upon  the  carpet  which  covered  the  sand.     These  three 
women,  all  young  and  beautiful,  with  forms  erect,  and  with  the 
marked  profile  of  the  Abyssinian  negro,  were  grouped  in  various 
attitudes,  like  three  statues  cut  from  a  single  block.     One  of 
them  had  one  knee  on  the  ground,  and  held  upon  the  other  knee 
one  of  the  children,  wiio  was  stretching  out  his  arms  toward  his 
weeping  mother  ;  the  other  had  her  two  legs  bent  under  her. 
and  both  hands  clasped  upon  her  blue  apron,  in  the  attitude  of 
the  Magdalene  of  Canova.     The  third  was  erect,  and  swinging 
her  body  to  and  fro,  lulled  to  sleep  the  infant  upon  her  breast. 
When   the  sobbing  of  the  young  widow  reached  the  infants' 
ears,  they  began  to  cry  ;  and  the  three  blacks,  after  responding 
by  a  sigh  to  the  sigh  of  their  mistress,  began  to   chant  some 
soothin"^  airs  and  simple  words  of  their  country,  to  calm  the  two 

infants. 

It  was  Sunday.   Two  hundred  feet  from  me,  behind  the  thick 
and  hi-gh  walls  of  Jerusalem,  I  heard  the  faint  and  distant  echoes 


60  THE    DESTINIES    OF   POETRY. 

of  the  evening  hymn,  proceeding  at  intervals  from  the  dark 
cupola  of  the  Grecian  convent.  It  was  the  hymns  and  psalms 
of  David  that  arose;  brought  back  here,  after  three  thousand 
years,  by  strange  voices  and  in  a  strange  tongue,  to  the  very 
scenes  that  had  inspired  them  :  and  I  saw  on  the  terraces  of  the 
convent,  the  forms  of  some  old  monks  of  Palestine,  going  and 
coming,  with  breviary  in  hand,  and  murmuring  those  prayers 
already  uttered  by  so  many  ages  in  varied  measures  and  various 
tongues. 

And  I,  too,  was  there,  to  sing  of  all  those  things,  to  study 
history  at  its  cradle,  to  ascend  to  its  very  source  the  u.nknown 
stream  of  a  civiHzation,  a  religion  ;  to  become  inspired  with  the 
genius  of  the  spot,  and  the  hidden  sense  of  the  histories  and 
the  monuments,  upon  those  banks  which  were  the  starting  point 
of  the  modern  world,  and  to  nourish  with  a  deeper  wisdom  and 
a  truer  philosophy,  the  grave  and  thoughtful  philosophy  of  the 
advanced  age  in  which  we  live. 

This  scene,  thrown  by  accident  under  my  eyes,  and  recorded 
as  one  of  my  thousand  reminiscences  of  travel,  presented  to  mo 
almost  the  entire  destiny  and  changes  of  all  poetry.  The  three 
black  slaves,  lulling  the  infants  with  the  simple,  thoughtless 
songs  of  their  country,  represented  the  pastoral  and  instinctive 
poetry  of  a  nation's  infancy.  The  young  Turkish  widow,  be- 
waihng  her  husband,  and  breathing  her  sighs  into  the  ear  of  the 
tomb,  represented  elegiac  and  impassioned  poetry — the  poetry 
of  the  heart.  The  Arab  soldiers  reciting  the  warlike,  amorous, 
wild  verses  of  Antar,  the  epic  and  warlike  poetry  of  the  nomadic 
and  conquering  tribes.  The  Greek  monks  singing  psalms  upon 
their  deserted  terraces,  the  sacred  and  lyric  poetry  of  the  periods  of 
rehgious  enthusiasDQ  and  renovation;  and  I,  myself,  meditating 
beneath  my  tent  and  collecting  historic  truths  or  reflections 
throughout  the  earth,  the  poetry  of  philosophy  and  reflection, 
offspring  of  an  age  in  which  humanity  studies  itself  and  analyzes 
itself  in  the  very  songs  W'ith  which  it  amuses  its  leisure. 

Such  is  Poetry  in  the  past.  But  what  will  it  ])e  in  the 
future  ? 


Poetry — the  music  of  Thought  conveyed  to  us  in  the  music 
of  Language. 


THE    GOLD    PEN 


The  Age  of  Gold  is  at  hand— he  that  doubts  it  can  have  no 
faith  in  omens.  There  are  those  who  affirm  it  has  come  already 
— that  we  live  in  a  golden  age  of  avarice.     I  mean 

<•• the  age  of  faLlcd  gold," 

SO  beautifully  dreamed  of  by  the  ancient  poets,  in   distinction 
from  the  brazen  and  iron  ages. 

"  The  Pea"  has  become  golden  !  that  instrument  more  pow- 
erful than  the  sword,  more  wonder-working,  in  fact,  than  the  en- 
chanter's wand  in  fable — which  has  done,  and  is  yet  to  do  so  much 
for  human  happiness— is  now  made  of  polished  gold.    Beautiful 
invention  !     Whisper  me,  Fancy,  of  what  features  in  American 
hterature  is  this  predictive  ?     Of  brilliancy— that  is  obvious  : 
the  sheen  of  such  a  pen  ever  present  to  his  eye,  will,  by  the 
principle  of  association,  incite  an  author  to  polish  his  sentences. 
Of  high  artistic  excellence  :  nothing  is  easier  than  to  write  in  a 
slovenly  manner  with  a  goose-quill ;  but  now  the  perfect  instru- 
ment will  shame  the  imperfect  work,  should  a  writer  allow  care- 
less diction  to  flow  from  a  golden  pen.     Clearly,  too,  is  this  in- 
vention ominous  of  sohd,  pure,  imperishable  worth  in  future 
authorship.     Who  would  write  cheap  literature  with  a  golden 
pen  ?     Erilliant  powers  will  be  devoted  to  the  best  purposes. 
How  "  full  of  meaning"  the  fact,  that  of  all  the  implements  of 
art  or  trade  in  existence,  that  of  the  author  alone,  is  best  made 
of  pure  gold.     Hitherto  geese  could  boast  that  they  furnished 
the  pens  with  which  human  wisdom  was  written ;  but  a  new 
era  is  dav^ning — this  invention  is  its  orient  star  !     Am  I  tran- 
scendental ?     Let  us  then  reason  upon  the  subject  coolly  and 

succinctly. 

The  easy  flow  of  composition  depends  much  upon  ease  of 
penmanship.  Many  a  thread  of  argument  has  been  broken  by 
stopping  to  mend  a  pen  :  often  has  the  author  from  the  inter- 


G8  THE    GOLD    PEN. 

ruption  of  nibbling  his  quill,  omitted  to  point  his  sentences :  but 
now,  once  upon  the  track,  he  need  never  stop  till  the  inkstand 
is  dry  ;  so  that  not  a  good  thought  can  escape  him  if  he  once 
catch  sight  of  it.  Further,  no  fact  is  more  striking  in  the 
psychological  history  of  man  than  the  associated  ideas  to  con- 
crete ones.  A  regular  catenation  of  laws  and  causes,  has  often 
produced  less  effects  through  reason,  than  has  a  casual  associa- 
tion of  images  through  the  medium  of  the  imagination.  Grant- 
ing that  this  has  always  been  a  prolific  source  of  error  and  evil 
— must  it  forever  be  so  ?  May  we  not  at  last  obtain  advantages 
from  the  unreal  thsit  we  have  failed  of  extracting  from  the  real^ 
And  may  not  this  charming  association  of  gold  with  authorship, 
begin  a  revolution  in  its  character,  that  reason,  conscience,  and 
criticism  could  not  effect  ?  indicating  that  the  golden  age  of 
avarice  is  fading  in  the  west,  and  that  of  literature  brightening 
the  east  ?  I  leave  to  the  reader  if  this  is  not  as  good  reasoning 
as  the  subject  admits  of;  and  as  good  metaphysics  as  Bishop 
Berkley's  nonsense. 

The  patriarch  of  old  wished  that  his  doleful  complaints  might 
be  graven  with  an  "u'on  pen."  We  conclude  that  was  the  Iron 
Age.  An  era  of  sharp  controversy,  factious  contention,  and 
paper  wars,  would  be  appropriately  symbolized  by  the  steel 
pen.  Those  ages  are  vanishing  away — retreating  like  dark 
clouds  in  the  east,  when  the  sun  looks  forth  and  paints  upon 
them  the  celestial  bow.  In  future  may  we  anticipate  that  bril- 
liant pens  will  write  sterling  sentiments,  and  win  "  golden  opin- 
ions.'" 

"  The  Pen"  is  a  metonymy  widely  significant  compared  with 
"  a  pen."  Thus  we  find  Scott  metonymized  under  the  figure  of 
"  the  great  modern  pen."  In  like  manner  we  speak  of"  reading 
an  author,"  instead  of  his  book ;  while  the  genius  or  ability  dis- 
played in  it,  is  often,  by  an  easy  trope,  predicated  not  of  himself 
but  of  his  pen.  This  figure  will  admit  of  subdivision  by  the  use 
of  a  specific  adjective  : — thus  authors  may  be  classified  as  they 
of  the  gold  pen,  the  silver  pen,  the  iron  pen,  or  the  steel  pen. 

Many  a  beautiful  gift  has  never  been  given  solely  because  the 
w^ouldbe  donor  could  not  decide  on  a  pretty  or  fitting  selection. 
As  this  precious  gem  of  art  will  solve  all  such  perplexities,  and 
furnish  an  appropriate  present  for  every  occasion  or  any  person, 
it  is  easy  to  infer  that  the  epoch  of  gold  pens  will  be  distio- 


THE    GOLD    PEN.  69 

guished  for  kind  feeling  and  generosity.    In  those  future  happy 
days,  when   not   a   single   adult  will  be  found  in  the  ITnited 
States,  barring  idiots,  who  cannot  read   and  write,  we  expect 
that  these  nice"" articles  will  become  a  kind  of  circulating  medium 
for  compliment  and  friendship.     Easily  transmissible  even  by 
letter,  durable,  useful  as  it  is,  he  that  cannot  think  of  any  tiling 
else  to  2ive  as  a  keepsake,  will  give  a  pen.    Cutlery  instruments 
are  reported  to  divide  love,  and  therefore  unsafe  presents  ;  a  pen 
would  be  a  perfectly  safe  gift,  and  any  person  to  whom  it  might 
be  unacceptable  could  not  deserve  a  remembrancer  of  any  kind. 
That  stcreotvpe  gift,  a  silver  cup,  precious  as  it  is.  has  ill  asso- 
ciations, recalling  to  thought  a  bad  habit  which  the  human  race 
is  determined  to  break  off.  Even  he  who  gives  his  friend  a  splen- 
did new  book  is  liable  to  give  what  is  worth  but  little.  Mounted 
with  a  heavy  gold  case,  elegantly  wrought,  such   a  pen  will  be 
an  offering  beautiful    enough  for   a  monarch   or  a  president. 
Swords  oFhonor,  of  costliest  workmanship,  are  conferred  upon 
fortunate  soldiers.     We  look  for  a  Golden  Age,  when   authors 
who  have  gallantly  waged  war  against  vice  and  folly,  and  done 
their  count'rv  good  service  on  the  side  of  truth  and  virtue,  will 
receive  from"'  municipal  corporations,  or  legislatures,  presentation 
pens  of  exquisite  beauty  and  richness,  with  appropriate  devices. 
Like  a  sword  to  the  warrior,  such  a  gift  will  reward  them  for 
labors  past  and  invite  them  to  new  achievements. 
"  Stop  when  you  get  through," 

Bhould  be  neatly  engraved  on  the  gold  pen  of  every  author  and 
authoress.  The  greatest  writers  that  ever  lived  have  been  they 
who  knew  what  not  to  write. 

A  critic  might  object  to  this  motto  that  the  sentiment  is 
homely,  or  the'style  jagged— that  it  embodies  a  meagre,  mean 
truism,  void  of  sense  or  poetry— that  it  would  be  as  useful  as  a 
board  put  up  in  Broadway  with  this  inscription— ''  do  not  run 
your  heads  against  this  brick  wall."  No  five  words  in  the  lan- 
guage, however,  convey  a  shrewder  generahzation  of  wisdom. 
The\lunt  emphasis  of  those  two  harsh  monosyllables,  "  get 
through,"  clenches  the  meaning;  and  its  plain  old-fashioned 
Saxon-English  style,  makes  this  a  choicer  motto  for  authorship, 
than  the  d°aintiest  bit  of  an  Itahan  sonnet  in  existence.  To  say 
that  it  amounts  to   an  obvious  truism,  is  to  express  the  reason 


70  THE    GOLD    PEN. 

for  which  I  select  it.  Like  the  man  who  hunted  all  day  for  his 
spectacles,  and  found  them  an  his  eye-brows,  authors  have  over- 
looked this  maxim  because  of  its  obviousness,  and  disobeyed  it 
because  of  its  familiarity.  No  one  could  imagine  that  Philip, 
of  Maccdon,  would  long  forget  he  was  a  mortal  man  ;  yet  so 
treacherous  was  his  memory  on  this  point  that  he  employed  a 
slave  to  cry  in  his  ears  daily,  "  Philip,  thou  art  mortal !"  The 
words  inscribed  over  Cotton  Mather's  study — "  be  short" — are 
the  only  rule  that  can  rival  this  in  appropriateness :  but  that 
fails  in  respect  of  generalization,  for  there  might  be  exceptions 
to  it,  whereas  to  this  there  could  be  no  exception.  Should  any 
say  that  he  can  never  get  through  the  subject  he  is  entering, 
that  try  as  long  as  he  may,  he  can  never  "  express  the  inexpressi- 
ble," this  motto  would  caution  to  stop  before  he  begins.  It 
mio-ht  catch  the  eye  of  the  transcendentahst  while  his  pen  is  gal- 
loping across  his  page,  and  induce  him  to  draw  rein  and  benefit 
mankind  by  digging  in  his  garden. 

No  work  has  come  down  to  us  on  the  stream  of  time  from 
remote  antiquity,  that  you  could  not  clasp  between  your  thumb 
and  finger  ;  the  ponderous  authors  have  all  sunk  like  lead  to  the 
bottom.  Humble  .Esop's  Fables  have  survived  thousands  of 
learned  tomes  that  went  to  heat  the  baihs  of  Alexandria.  Of 
literary  glory,  they  have  often  gained  most  who  sought  it  least. 
To  seek  supremely  is  to  forfeit  Fame  :  that  capricious  goddess 
spurns  from  her  feet  all  abject  worshippers  :  they  only  are 
crowned  with  her  unfading  garland,  who  pay  their  devotions  in 
the  Temple  of  Truth. 

An  immortal  book  is  a  beautiful  proof  of  the  soul's  immortal- 
ity. Shall  that  which  is  made  be  more  enduring  than  its  maker  ? 
Man's  material  works,  like  his  material  frame,  slow^ly  but  surely 
decay  :  the  best  productions  of  his  mind  live  not  only  with  a 
perpetual,  but  a  growing  existence ;  they  realize  a  perennial 
youth,  and  attest  in  this  world  his  immortahty  in  the  next. 

Thus  to  delight  and  profit  mankind  through  ceaseless  ages,  is 
the  most  exalted  achievement  of  mind  !  Little  wonder  that  the 
dazzling  prize  should  attract  a  countless  throng  of  aspirants. 
Lament  we  that  so  m.any  thousands  fall  short  on  the  race — that 
the  toils  of  those  who  succeed  are  infinitely  surpassed  by  those 
who  fail  ?  That  were  absurd.  What,  if  in  the  Olympic  foot 
race,  the  laural  crown  had  descended  on  the  brows  of  all  the 


LIVE    TO    DO    GOOD.  71 

competitors,  instead  of  the  single  victor  ?  Honors,  like  diamonds, 
are  precious  in  proportion  as  they  are  scarce.  This  paucity  of 
success  hath  ever  been,  and  must  be  the  grand  stimulant  to  in- 
tellectual exertions,  which  in  themselves  are  profitable.  Did  all 
obtain  who  seek  fame,  the  result  would  be  similar  to  that  of  suc- 
cess in  finding  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  which  by  transmuting 
the  base  metals,  might  increase  gold,  but  would  diminsh  riches, 
by  taking  from  that  its  greatest  value,  rarity. 


-•••- 


LIVE    TO    DO    GOOD. 


"  LiYK  to  do  good  ;  but  not  with  thought  to  wia 
From  man  return  of  any  kindness  done ; 
rvemeraber  Ilim  who  died  on  cross  for  sin, 
The  merciful,  the  meek,  rejected  One ; 
Wiien  he  was  slain  for  crime  of  doing  good, 
Canst  thou  expect  return  of  gratitude  1 

*•  Do  good  to  all ;  but  while  thou  servest  best 

And  at  thy  greatest  cost,  nerve  thee  to  bear, 

When  thine  own  heart  with  anguish  is  opprest, 
The  cruel  taunt,  the  cold,  averted  air ; 

From  lips  which  thou  hast  tauglit  in  hope  to  pray. 

And  eyes  whose  sorrows  thou  hast  wiped  away. 

'•  Still  do  thou  good  ;  but  for  His  holy  sake 

Who  died  for  thine :  fixing  thy  purpose  ever 
High  as  His  throne,  no  wrath  of  man  can  shake  ; 

So  shall  He  own  thy  generous  endeavor, 
And  take  thee  to  His  conqueror's  glory  up, 
When  thou  hast  shared  the  Saviour's  bitter  cup. 

''■  Do  nought  but  good ;  for  such  the  noble  strife 
Of  virtue  is  'gainst  wrong  to  venture  love. 
And  for  thy  foe  devote  a  brother's  life, 

Content  to  wait  the  recompense  above  ; 
Brave  for  the  truth,  to  fiercest  insult  meek, 
In  mercy  strong,  in  vengeance  only  weak." 


POSITION    AND    CHARACTEE.. 


"WnKx  a  man  is  placed  in  a  false  position,  the  very  traits  of  his 
character  that  would  be  virtuous  in  a  true  one,  are  often  looked 
upon  as  faults,  or  denounced  as  vices. 

When  the  temple  of  Minerva  was  finished,  at  Athens,  two 
rival  sculptors  of  that  city  were  employed  to  decorate  its  sum 
rait  with  a  statue  of  the  goddess.     Each  labored  in  secret,  and 
followed  the  conceptions  of  his  own  mind,  with  a  view  to  the 
production  of  a  master-piece  of  art.    On  the  day  that  the  merits 
of  the  statues  were  to  be  decided  upon,  and  the  hour  for  so  doing 
had  arrived,  a  few  of  the  self  constituted  judges  gathered  in 
front,  while  thousands  remained  behind  who  could  see  nothing. 
Those  in  front  passed  judgment  upon  the  production,  and  the 
thousands  who  could  see  nothing,  hurrahed  and  responded  to 
the  decision.     One  statue  w^as  of  the  size  of  life,  finely  sculp- 
tured, and  of  most  exquisite  workmanship;  the  features  beauti- 
fully chiselled,  until  life  seemed  starting  from  the  marble.     The 
other  was  of  collossal  size,  with  huge  and  apparently  unshapely 
limbs,  and  features  that  looked,  to  the  immediate  observer,  more 
like  unmeaning  protuberances  than  any  thing  else.     When  the 
judges  gave  a  decision  in  fiivor  of  the  small  but  beautiful  statue, 
it  was  gradually  raised  amid  the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  and 
became  dimmer  and  fainter  as  it  receded  from  their  view  ;  and 
when  it  finally  reached  the  pedestal,  it  resembled  nothing  human 
or  divine,  but  seemed  to  have  dwindled  to  a  mere  point.     The 
applause  gave  way  to  murmurs  and  disapprobation,  and  it  was 
then  lowered  to  make  room  for  its  rejected  rival,  w^hich  was 
very  reluctantly  hoisted  in  its  stead.     As  it  receded  from  the 
earth,  its  deformities  lessened,  and  gave  way  to  an  appearance 
of  symmetry  and  beauty,  which  increased  with  its  distance  from 
the  earth  :  and  when  it  finally  reached  the  pinnacle  from  which 
the  sculptor,  from  his  knowledge  of  perspective  and  proportion, 
designed  it  should  be  viewed,  then  it  looked  as  if  the  divinity 
herself,  so  beautiful  was  its  aspect,  had  descended  to  receive 
the  homage  of  her  worshippers.     So  it  is  with  men.     And  when 
a  m.an  is  placed  by  circumstances  in  a  position  lower  than  that 
in  which  he  was  created  to  move,  his  virtues  become  vices  in 
the  eyes  of  those  whose  vision  is  too  short  to  view  him  as  a 
whole,  and  who  therefore  reject  him  as  unfit  for  elevation. 


PLEASANT    WORDS. 


'  Pleasant  words  are  as  an  honey-comb,  sweet  to  the  sonl  and  health 

to  the  bones." — Prov.  xvi.  24. 


Man'Y  truths  the  Wise  Man  gives 

To  his  sons  and  daughters, 
Useful,  p.ure,  and  stron^^,  and  bright, 

As  streams  of  living  waters  ;* 
But  one  I  choose  from  all  the  rest 
And  call  it  now  the  very  best. 

Pleasant  words,  he  says,  are  like 

A  comb  of  fragrant  honey, 
The  savings'  bank  of  thriving  bees, 

Whose  cells  contain  their  money, 
Where  they,  in  little  space,  lay  up 
The  gains  of  many  a  flowery  cup. 

"  Sweet  to  the  soul"— they  gently  soothe 

In  days  of  bitter  anguish  ; 
•=  Health  to  the  bones"— they  cheer  the  sick, 

And  lift  the  heads  that  languish  ; 
And  prove,  in  every  state  and  mood, 
A  quiet  way  of  doing  good. 

Let  us,  then,  ask  God  to  plant 

In  us  his  flowers  of  beauty. 
And  teach  us  to  watch  over  them 

With  humble,  patient  duty. 
Sweet  flowers  that  grace  the  heart  of  youth, 
Love,  meekness,  gentleness,  and  truth. 

For  as  honey  is  not  found 

Where  no  flowers  are  blowing, 

So.  unless  within  our  hearts 
Love  and  truth  are  growing, 

No  one  on  our  lips  will  find 

Pleasant  words,  sincere  and  kind. 


74  I    WAS    SICK    AND    IN    PRISON. 

But— unlike  the  fragile  flowers, 
Wlio  die  as  soon  as  ever 

They*hav'e  given  their  honey  up — 
The  more  that  we  endeavor 

To  lavish  kindness  everywhere, 

The  more  we  still  shall  have  to  spam. 

PIeas3;iv.  vords !     Oh,  let  us  strive 
To  use  them  very  often  ; 

Other  hearts  they  will  delight^ 
And  our  own  they'll  soften  ; 

While  God  himself  will  hear  above, 

Pleasant  words  of  truth  and  love. 

Pleasant  words !     The  river's  wave 
That  ripples  every  minute, 

On  the  shore  we  love  so  well,  • 
Hath  not  such  music  in  it : 

Nor  are  the  songs  of  breeze  or  birds 

Half  so  sweet  as  pleasant  words. 


-«•»>- 


I  WAS  SICK  AND  IN  PRISON. 


Thou  hast  not  left  the  rough-barked  tree  to  grow 

Without  a  mate  upon  the  river's  bank ; 
Nor  dost  Thou  on  one  flower  the  rain  bestow. 

But  many  a  cup  the  glittering  drops  have  drank : 
The  bird  must  sing  to  one  who  sings  again. 

Else  would  her  note  less  welcome  be  to  hear  ; 
Nor  hast  Thou  bid  thy  word  descend  in  vain, 

But  soon  some  answering  voice  shall  reach  my  ear 
Then  shall  the  brotherhood  of  peace  begin, 

And  the  new  song  be  raised  that  never  dies. 
That  shall  the  soul  from  death  and  darkness  win, 

And  burst  the  prison  where  the  captive  lies  ; 
And  one  by  oue  new-born  shall  join  the  strain, 
Till  earth  restores  her  sons  to  heaven  again. 


H .  Mae  s  .xxn-!!  1- 


'■■6tS-iiti 


W' 


H.S  Sadi.Sci 


ALOISE    SENEFELDER. 


At  Munich,  in  the  year  1795,  a  new  comedy  was  acted  one 
night  at  the  theatre.  The  part  of  one  of  the  characters,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  keep  the  audience  in  a  perpetual  roar  of  laughter, 
was  sustained  by  a  young  man,  whose  mournful  actions  and 
spiritless  gestures  were  strangely  at  variance  with  the  drolleries 
he  uttered.  He  seemed  to  be  about  seventeen  years  old,  his 
figure  was  tall  and  slender,  his  countenance  pale,  and  his  large 
blue  eyes  v'ore  an  expression  of  profound  melancholy.  The 
piece  was  unmercifully  hissed  ;  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  over, 
while  the  young  actor  was  changing  his  dress,  one  of  the  attend- 
ants made  his  appearance. 

"  Mr.  Aloise  Senefelder  !"  said  he,  "  the  manager  wishes  to 
speak  to  you  im.mediately." 

"  Tell  him  I  [im  coming,"  replied  the  young  man ;  and  hastily 
finishing  his  toilette,  he  repaired  to  the  manager's  room. 

"Mr.  Senefelder,"  said  the  man  in  authority,  "  do  you  know 
I  am  the  author  of  the  play  acted  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Aloise  timidly. 

"  Do  you  know  the  piece  is  condemned  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Aloise,  "  I  did  my  best—" 

"  To  make  it  fail,  and  you  have  succeeded,"  said  the  incensed 
author.  ''  From  this  moment  you  are  no  longer  one  of  my  com- 
pany.    Here  is  what  I  owe  you — take  it,  sir,  and  withdraw." 

Astonished  at  these  words,  Aloise  stood  like  a  statue.  He 
seemed  without  power  either  to  take  the  money  or  to  move. 
At  length  the  box-keeper,  who  was  present,  took  the  few  coins 
and  placed  them  in  his  hand;  and  the  cold  contact  of  the  silver 
recalling  him  to  recollection,  he  clasped  his  fingers  convulsively 
together,  and  falling  on  his  knees,  burst  into  tears. 

"Ah!    don't  send   me   away! — don't   send  me  away!"  he 

cried. 

"  I  want  an  actor,  not  a  mourner,"  said  the  manager-author, 


78  ALOISE    SENEFELDER. 


in  whose  ears  the  hisses  were  still  ringing.     "  In  place  of  lajgh- 
ing  you  weep." 

"  Sir,  my  father  died  two  days  ago,  and  he  is  not  yet  buried 
for  want  of  a  cothn  to  contain  his  dear  remains.  My  mother 
and  my  iive  little  brothers  and  sisters  have  only  me  to  depend 
on.  Try  me,  then,  Mr.  Sparman — try  me  once  more,  I  beseech 
you." 

"  Sorry  I  can't  grant  your  request,"  said  the  manager,  tak- 
ing up  his  hat  and  moving  towards  the  door.  As  he  passed 
Aloise,  on  whose  pale  face  the  burning  tears  seemed  frozen,  the 
better  feelings  of  the  onan  partly  conquered  those  of  the  author, 

"  Double  the  salary  and  pay  for  the  father's  funeral,  Mr. 
Fitz,"  he  said  to  the  box-keeper,  and  went  out. 

Fitz  took  a  few  crowns  from  a  drawer,  placed  them  in  the 
hands  of  Aloise,  helped  him  to  rise ;  and  then  giving  him  his 
arm,  assisted  him  out  of  the  theatre. 

Kindly  supporting  the  poor  boy's  tottering  steps,  the  box- 
keeper  led  him  to  an  undertaker's  shop,  and  gave  orders  for  an 
humble  coffin.  Then  seeing  him  able  to  walk  to  his  mother's 
lodging,  Fitz  took  leave  of  him  and  returned  to  the  theatre. 

The  vridow  Senefelder  inhabited  a  miserable  apartment  in  an 
obscure  part  of  the  city.  Want  and  misery  were  stamped  on 
the  innocent  faces  of  the  five  little  ones  who  surrounded  her, 
and  who  with  one  accord  rushed  toward  Aloise  as  he  entered. 

The  eldest,  a  pretty  girl  about  ten  years  old,  drew  them 
back,  and  putting  her  lips  close  to  her  brother's  ear,  whispered — 

"  Have  you  brought  any  supper,  Aloise  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  he,  giving  her  the  silver  he  had  received. 

"So  much  as  that?"  said  the  sister;  "  they  must  be  much 
pleased  to  give  you  so  many  crowns." 

"  So  much  pleased,  Marianne,  that  they  have  dismissed  me." 

"  Then  you  are  no  longer  an  actor  ?"  said  one  of  the  little 
boys.  "  So  much  the  better.  It  is  an  ungodly  profession  our 
curate  says." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  another  child,  "  but  how  shall  we  get  money 
to  buy  bread,  if  Aloise  does  nothing  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  said  Marianne  ;  don't  let  our  dear  mamma 
hear  this  bad  news  to-night.  "We  will  pray  to  God  who  has 
taken  papa  to  himself,  and  perhaps  He  will  send  us  some  con- 
solation." 


ALOISE    SENEFELDER.  79 

Aloise  was  silent.  He  watched  all  night  by  his  father's 
corpse,  and  the  i.ext  morning  followed  it  to  the  grave.  Instead 
of  returning  home  he  wandered  idly  through  the  streets,  pur- 
sued by  the  still  recurring  question— "  What  can  I  do  ?■'  Night 
approached.  He  thought  of  returning  to  his  mother,  recalling 
how  uneasy  his  absence  would  make  her;  but  when  he  looked 
around  he  knew  not  where  he  was.  In  absence  of  mind  he  had 
wandered  far  into  the  country,  and  the  rushing  of  a  river  struck 
his  ear.  He  approached  its  bank,  and,  overcome  by  fatigue 
and  hunger,  sank  down  upon  the  soft  grass.  For  some  time  he 
watched  the  flowing  water,  till  a  dreadful  idea  entered  his  poor 

harassed  brain. 

"  Beneath  that  quiet  wave,"  he  thought,  "  all  woes  would 
soon  be  ended.  I  am  no  longer  good  for  anything.  I  am  only 
a  burden  to  my  mother,  giving  her  another  mouth  to  feed.  I 
will  therefore  die,  and  all  will  be  over  ?" 

Aloise  had  been  educated  in  sentiments  of  Christian  piety ; 
and  now  hke  a  ray  of  light  from  heaven,  the  thought  struck  him 
that  he  was  meditating  a  fearful  crime.  He  shuddered,  and 
kneeling  down,  prayed  fervently  to  God  for  pardon. 

While  on  his  knees,  his  ideas  became  gradually  confused,  the 
water  ceased  to  flow  and  the  stars  to  shine.     Aloise  slept. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes,  it  was  daylight.  The  scene 
around  was  gilded  by  the  rising  sun.  He  heard  the  pleasant 
singing  of  the  birds,  and  his  heart  expanded  with  joy.  He  was 
still  among  the  living — he  had  not  accomplished  his  wicked  re- 
solution ;  and  falling  again  on  his  knees,  he  thanked  God  for  his 
mercy.  Notwithstanding  his  bodily  weakness,  he  felt  refreshed, 
and  sat  down  for  a  few  moments  on  the  grass,  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  ere  he  set  out  on  his  return  to  the  city. 

While  thus  resting,  his  eyes  fell  on  a  smooth  white  chalk 
stone,  on  which  was  traced  the  dehcate  semblance  of  a  sprig 
of  moss,  with  all  its  minute  flowers  and  tender  fibres.  He  re- 
membered that  the  evening  before,  his  tears  had  fallen  on  this 
stone,  and  moistened  the  sprig  of  moss  which  had  probably 
fallen  on  it  from  the  beak  of  some  wandering  bird.  Now,  the 
moss  was  no  longer  there,  the  wind  having  borne  it  away,  but 
its  impress  still  rem.ained  so  exquisitety  traced  on  the  smooth 
white  surface  of  the  stone,  that  the  young  German  could  not 
help  being  struck  with  the  phenomenon. 


80  ALOISE    8ENEFELDER. 

'•'  This  means  something,"  thought  he.  "  I  may  have  letn 
led  in  mercy  to  this  spot.  I  am  a  bad  actor,  a  bad  singer,  but 
who  knows  ?  I  may  be  reserved  for  something  better." 

Taking  the  stone  in  his  hand,  Aloise  rose  up  and  turned  his 
Bteps  homeward. 

At  the  gate  of  the  city,  he  met  his  little  brother,  whom  his 
iDother  had  sent  to  seek  him.  The  child  told  him  tliat  an  old 
uncle  of  their  mother  had  come  to  see  her  on  the  morning  of 
the  burial,  and  had  given  her  a  sum  of  money  to  relieve  her 
wants. 

"  My  God,  I  thank  thee,"  said  young  Senefelder,  mentally. 
He  did  not  then  know  that  the  stone  which  he  held  in  his  hand 
would  cause  him  in  a  few  days  still  greater  emotions  of  thank- 
fulness. At  first  he  employed  his  discovery  onl-y  in  ornament- 
ing the  covers  of  caskets,  snuff-boxes,  &c. ;  but  one  day  it 
occurred  to  him  to  take  off  on  wet  paper  the  picture  drawn  on 
stone.  The  experiment  succeeded,  and  lithography  w'as  dis- 
covered. 

In  time  Aloise  brought  the  art  to  perfection.  He  studied 
chemistry  for  the  purpose,  and  rich  and  happy  were  his  pros- 
perous family  around  him.  He  felt  that  he  could  never  be  suffi- 
ciently thankful  for  having  outlived  his  design  of  self-destruction. 

"  Why  should  we  ever  despair  ?"  he  would  say.  **  God  can 
turn  our  pain  into  pleasure,  and  our  bitterness  into  joy." 


■^•^ 


HOME. 

Home  !    'Tis  a  blessed  name  !    And  they  who  rove, 

Careless  or  scornful  of  its  pleasant  bonds, 

Nor  gather  round  them  those  linked  soul  to  sonl 

B3'  nature's  fondest  ties — wliose  priceless  love 

And  holy  truthfulness  make  up  a  '  Home, 

And  make  a  heaven  of  home' — and  more,  far  more  I 

Enfold  the  spirit  in  a  sweet  content, 

And  bid  it  hope  a  second  home  in  Heaven — 

But  dream  they're  happy. 


THE    HTJNTEE   STEVENS   AND    EIIS    DOG-, 


A    SAD    BUT    TRUE    STORY. 


FROM      THE     GERMAN' — BY     MRS.     ST.      SIMJN. 

A  FINE  black  Newfoundland  doo-  belonsfin;^  to  the  Advocate 
Floyd,  of  Holmfirth,  after  having  for  several  days,  mani- 
fested an  uncommon  sadness,  drowned  himself  in  the  stream 
which  flows  in  the  rear  of  his  master's  dw^ellino;.  He  was  seen 
to  plunge  into  the  water,  and  endeavored  to  sink  b}'  keeping 
himself  perfectly  still.  He  was  drawn  out  and  chained  for  a 
short  time,  but  no  sooner  was  he  loosed  again  than  he  renewed 
his  attempt,  and  after  many  trials  which  exhausted  his  strength, 
he,  at  last,  succeeded  in  eifecting  his  purpose,  and  this  by  hold- 
ing his  head  resolutely  beneath  the  water  for  some  time ;  when 
he  was  drawn  aoain  to  land — he  w^as  dead  ! 


The  foreo-oino;  anecdotu  of  the  sins^ular  suicide  of  a  doof, 
might  have  been  read  not  a  very  long  while  ago,  in  almost  every 
journal,  and  although  man}?^  doubted  it,  yet,  alas  !  the  fact  could 
not  be  denied.  But  the  manner  in  which  the  poor  beast  was 
driven  to  a  pitch  of  despair,  actually  found  only  among  civilized 
men,  is  a  sad  story,  known  to  but  few,  a  story  which  I  will  here 
relate : 

CHAPTER   I. 

THE    HUT. 

Far,  far  in  the  distant  West,  there  where  the  Missouri  rolle 
its  turbid  stream  into  the  "  Father  of  Waters,"  the  mighty 
Mississippi ;  at  the  foot  of  the  pine-clad  hills,  which  shut  in  the 
fruitful  bottom-land,  stands  a  mean  hut,  built  of  rude  logs,  and 
covered  with  rouoh  boards. 


32  THE    HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG. 

But  seldom  does  it  happen  that  human  eye  remarks  it,  or 
human  footj  that  of  its  occupant  excepted,  crosses  its  threshold, 
for  it  stands  deep  in  the  forest,  surrounded  by  mighty  trees,  and 
a  scarcely  discernible  foot-path  is  the  only  thing  which  connects 
it  with  the  surrounding  world. 

It  is  a  wild,  romantic  country  ;  and  here,  at  a  time  w'henman 
as  well  as  wild  beast,  found  their  couch  not  far  distant  from 
each  other,  a  solitary  hunter  took  up  his  abode  that  he  might 
follow  the  chase  the  more  easily,  undisturbed  by  the  tiresome 
faces  of  his  fellow-men. 

But  the  hut  itself,  before  we  pass  to  its  occupants,  is  deserv- 
ing of  a  brief  description,  for  by  a  strange  and  singular  w^him 
of  its  possessor,  its  interior  was  arranged  in  a  manner  truly 
remarkable. 

The  space  enclosed  by  the  unhewn  logs  might  be  about  four- 
teen feet  square,  but  within,  little  was  to  be  seen  of  the  rough 
wood,  for  immense  buffalo  skins  hung  around  the  walls,  and 
the  floor  was  covered  with  large  shaggy  bear  skins.  The  half 
of  one  side  of  the  hut  was  occupied  by  a  deep  chimney,  roughly 
plastered  with  clay,  in  which  a  cheerful  fire  was  burning;  oppo- 
site to  this  stood  a  somewhat  elevated  bed,  made  of  the  skins 
of  wild  animals,  piled  one  upon  another,  and  at  its  foot  was  a 
smaller  one,  upon  which  lay  several  well  gnawed  bones,  proving 
it  to  be  the  resting-place  of  a  dog.  Above  the  low^  door  lay  a 
long  western  rifle,  upon  two  braces  that  were  fastened  to  the 
waU  with  wooden  pegs,  and  behind  this  door  hung  the  ball- 
pouch  and  powder-horn,  together  with  a  broad  leathern  belt,  in 
which  was  thrust  a  small  knife  and  a  hatchet. 

The  only  articles  of  household  furniture  visible,  w^ere  a 
roughly  formed  table  which  showed  traces  of  the  axe  alone,  and 
a  similarly  constructed  stool,  overspread  with  a  bear  skin,  w^iile 
upon  a  shelf,  very  skilfully  fastened  against  the  wall,  stood  a 
wooden  dish,  asmaU  iron  kettle,  and  a  pewter  cup.  In  a  corner 
of  the  room  stood  a  section  of  a  hollow  tree,  filled  with  shelled 
corn.  In  addition,  a  long  spear  was  seen  above  the  chimney- 
place,  and  several  empty  bags  made  of  dear  skins,  hung  on  cross 
pieces  from  the  rafters  which  supported  the  roof  of  the  cham- 
ber. But  who  were  the  occupants  of  this  singular  dwelhng  ? 
This  matter  we  wfll  investigate  in  the  next  chapter. 


THE   HUNTER    STEVENS    AND     HIS    DCIG.  83 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  OCCUPANTS. 

In  front  of  the  chimney,  upon  the  skin-covered  stool  which 
we  have  just  described,  sat  the  owner  of  the  hut,  a  hale  and 
ruddy  cheeked  old  man,  with  snow-white  hair,  and  clear  blue 
eyes.  He  was  busied  sharpening  his  long  hunting-knife  upon 
a  whetstone.  His  dress  was  that  of  a  hunter.  Leathern  leg- 
gings and  moccasins  enveloped  his  legs  and  feet ;  a  loose  hunt- 
ing shirt  of  the  same  durable  material,  ornamented  at  the  seams 
with  notched  fringe,  fell  over  his  shoulders,  and  an  old  felt  hat, 
crushed  by  the  wind  and  rain  into  all  possible  fashions,  covered 
his  snow-white  head.  His  throat  was  bare,  notwithstanding 
the  cold  autumn  wind  whistled  through  the  leafless  trees,  and 
his  broad,  leathern  belt  held  a  knife,  a  small  hatchet,  and  a 
second  pewter  cup,  while  a  woolen  blanket  lay  rolled  up  at  his 
feet.  The  man  had  evidently  prepared  himself  for  the  chase, 
and  was  just  trying  the  edge  of  his  faithful  steel,  to  satisfy  him- 
self that  it  was  bright,  and  sharp,  and  fit  for  use. 

Before  him  was  seated  the  second  occupant  of  the  hut,  not 
upon  a  stool  covered  with  bear-skin,  but  upon  his  own  hind- 
quarters, and  was  gazing  with  his  large,  good-natured  eyes, 
impatiently  in  the  hunter's  face.  It  was  a  powerful,  black,  long- 
haired Newfoundland  dog,  with  a  broad  chest  and  strong  frame. 
The  smooth,  glossy  skin  of  the  noble  beast  was  rent  in  many 
places  by  wide  scars,  which  proved  how  bravely,  at  his  master's 
side,  he  had  fought  many  a  perilous  fight.  But  he  knew  also 
how  dear  he  w^as  to  this  master,  and,  in  truth,  never  had  man 
and  dog  been  truer  or  more  inseparable  friends.  He  looked  up 
gravely  in  the  face  of  the  old  hunter,  who  having  just  finished 
his  task,  placed  the  whetstone  between  two  logs  above  the 
chimney,  and  thrust  the  knife  back  into  its  sheath. 

"  Pup !"  he  said  in  a  familiar  tone,  as  he  glanced  down  at 
the  faithful  partner  of  his  labors,  "  Pup  !  shall  we  go  a  hunt- 
ing ?"  Now.  the  dog,  in  truth,  was  a  pup  no  longer,  yet  he  had 
preserved  his  youthful  name,  and  seemed  to  be  well  satisfied 
with  the  tender  appellation,  for  he  had  scarcely  heard  the  kind 
voice  of  his  master,  when  he  turned  his  head  a  little  to  one  side, 
drew  up  his  upper  lip,  so  that  his  shining  ivory  teeth  were  visi- 


84  THE  HUNTER  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

ble,  and  oegan  to  wag  his  long  busby  tail  in  a  most  extraordinary 
manner.  "  Pup  !"  said  the  hunter  once  again,  "  what  say  you, 
dog  ?" 

"  Wow  !"  said  Pup,  and  he  hfted  one  of  his  broad  paws 
upon  his  master's  knee. 

"  Where  then,  shall  we  go  to-day.  Pup  ?"  asked  the  old  man 
again,  as  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the  head  of  the  faithful  ani- 
mal. "  Ha  !  what  is  that  you  are  growling  ?  Shall  we  hunt 
the  wild  turkey,  eh  ?     You  have  no  great  liking  for  that." 

Pup  had  removed  his  paw  from  his  master's  knee,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  ground  ;  he  seemed  not  quite  satisfied  with 
hunting  the  wild  turkey. 

"  Or  shall  we  start  the  big  deer  that  hides  down  yonder  in 
the  cane  brake  ?     What  says  the  dog  ?" 

Even  this  did  not  seem  to  move  Pup ;  he  scratched  the 
ground  with  his  paw  as  if  impatient,  and  then  held  himself  still 
again. 

"  Well,  Pup,  I  know  nothing  better  then  than  to  take  a  stroll 
among  the  hills,  and  see  if  we  can  find  an  op|)osum — that  doesn't 
taste  so  bad,  eh  ?" 

Pup  gazed  for  a  moment  in  his  master's  face  with  great 
gravity,  but  as  the  latter  did  not  add  another  word,  he  rose, 
growled  angrily  to  himself,  and  w^ent  to  his  bed,  upon  which  he 
cast  himself,  greatly  vexed  and  olit  of  temper. 

The  old  man  had  watched  the  sagacious  beast  with  a  smile, 
but  when  the  latter  closed  his  eyes,  and  appeared  resolved  to 
pay  no  attention  to  any  farther  propositions,  he  spoke  to  him 
anew. 

"  Pup  !"  Pup  did  not  hear.  "  Pup  !  I  don't  care  about  a 
'possum." 

The  dog  contracted  the  skin  upon  his  head  as  if  he  would 
prick  up  his  ears. 

"  Pup  !  shall  we  go  to  the  river  ?  Shall  we  see  whether  the 
hear  has  crossed  the  brook  again  ?" 

In  an  instant  the  dog  was  at  his  side,  and  gazed  up  in  his  face 
with  his  large  clear  eyes,  as  if  in  doubt. 

'*  Hunt  the  bear.  Pup  ?"  said  the  old  man,  and  barking 
loudly,  the  dog  leaped  in  wild  joy  upon  him,  licked  his  hands, 
seated  himself  at  last  again,  and  howled  most  piteously. 

"  So — so  !  that's  enough  !"  said  his  master,  laughing.  "  Come, 


THE    HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  85 

be  reasonable,  Pup  !"  and  with  these  words  he  hung  his  ball 
pouch  around  him,  took  his  rifle  from  its  place,  and  followed  by 
his  dog,  stepped  from  the  door  which  he  secured  without  by 
a  peg. 

"  Wait,  Pup  !"  he  now  cried  to  his  dog,  as  the  latter,  striking 
into  the  well  known  path,  ran  onwards  toward  the  bottom-land. 
"  Wait,  Pup !  we  will  first  take  a  look  at  the  smoke  hou.se,  and 
see  if  all  is  right  there." 

With  these  words  he  approached  the  building  so-called, 
which  scarcely  deserved  the  appellation  of  "  house,"  for  it  was 
rather  a  kind  of  enclosure  formed  by  a  number  of  stakes  driven 
close  to  each  other  in  the  ground,  and  protected  from  the  wind 
and  rain  by  a  strong  roof  of  bark,  while  the  weight  of  numerous 
stag's  antlers  prevented  the  pieces  of  bark  from  falling  down  or 
being  blown  away.  A  low  door,  closed  by  a  wooden  peg, 
formed  the  entrance,  and  within  were  the  wiater  stores  of  the 
industrious  hunter ;  several  pieces  of  bears'  flesh,  a  row  of 
smoked  venison  hams,  and  two  bags  filled  with  honey,  formed 
the  principal  portion  thereof;  besides  these,  several  short  sec- 
tions of  hohow  trees  stood  upon  the  ground  filled  with  maize 
and  salt,  and  on  sticks,  laid  crosswise,  hung  slices  of  dried 
pumpkin,  the  finest  vegetable  raised  in  the  Western  States. 

Stevens — this  was  the  hunter's  name — after  a  look  of  satisfac 
tion  around  the  interior,  was  already  about  to  fasten  the  door 
again,  when  he  glanced  once  more  over  the  row  of  hams,  and 
then,  bending  down,  examined  attentively  one  of  the  stakes, 
evidently  occupied  in  counting  the  notches  cut  in  the  wood. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine — right ! 
And  here,"  he  continued,  rising,  "  one,  two,  three,  four,  five, 
six,  seven,  eight — hem  !"  he  said,  and  looked  thoughtfully  at 
the  vacant  place  where  the  ninth  smoked  ham  had  hung,  "  that 
is  strange  !  Pup  !  doesn't  Pup  know  what  has  become  of  the 
ninth  ham  ?" 

Pup,  who  had  again  joined  his  master,  seemed  not  to  have 
heard  the  question,  for  he  was  deeply  occupied  in  contemplating 
a  sun  bleached  bear's  skull,  which  he  gazed  at  with  extraordi,- 
nary  attention. 

"  Hem  !  singular  !"  muttered  Stevens  between  his  teeth,  "  not 
i  trace  of  a  living  thing  here,  except  Pup  and  I,  and  yet  the 
ham  is  oone.     Can  T  have  miscounted  ?     But  this  is  now  the 


86  THE  HUNTER  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

third  time  that  I  have  missed  something.  Pup  !  pup  !  yuu  must 
watch  better  !"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  dog,  "  this  musnt 
go  on  so  any  longer.  If  I  miss  anything  again,  I  will  make 
your  bed  in  the  smoke  house." 

Pup  cast  a  sh}^  side  glance  up  to  his  master,  and  then,  as  the 
latter  now  closed  the  door  and  raised  his  rifle  upon  his  shoulder, 
he  sprang  joyfully  before  him  toward  the  dense  bottom-land,  to 
scent  out  the  promised  bear  track. 

CHAPTER    III. 

THE     HUNT. 

When  Pup  had  once  fairly  turned  his  back  upon  the  house, 
he  began  to  wag  his  tail  violently ;  he  was  a  most  excellent 
dog  upon  a  track,  and  was  in  his  element  as  soon  as  he 
trod  the  soil  of  the  forest,  which  occurred,  indeed,  the  moment 
he  crossed  his  master's  threshold'  The  latter  also  knew  how 
to  prize  the  excellent  qualities  of  his  dog,  and  left  him  in  all 
respects  his  free  will,  neither  had  any  one  ever  heard  that  an. 
unkind  word  had  passed  between  the  two  ;  they  understood 
and  esteemed  each  other,  and  as  is  well  known,  it  is  only  out 
of  mutual  esteem  that  love  and  friendship  can  arise. 

Pup  had  come  upon  a  fresh  bear's  track,  and  often  stopped 
and  looked  back,  grinning  friendly  to  his  master,  while  he  raised 
bis  upper  lip,  as  if  he  would  say — "  Are  we  not  a  couple  of  fine 
fellows,  and  will  we  not  have  capital  sport  ?" 

The  old  man  would  then  nod,  and  cry,  smihng — "  Pight,  my 
dog !  brave  beast !" 

It  was  in  autumn ;  the  white  oaks  bore  ripe  acorns,  and  the 
bears  often  clambered  up  the  trees,  in  order  to  break  down  the 
weaker  branches  and  devour  the  fruit.  That  part  of  the  country 
is  even  yet  one  of  the  best  hunting  grounds  in  Missouri ;  bears 
are  found  there  in  considerable  numbers,  but  soon  the  poor 
beasts  will  be  driven  thence,  and  be  obliged  to  leave  "  the  land 
of  their  father,"  to  be  chased  in  the  everlasting  hunting  grounds, 
by  the  spirits  of  the  murdered  Indians. 

"Pup!"  said  the  old  man  suddenl}^,  in  a  low  and  cautious 
tone,  "  Stop,  Pup  !  I  hear  something." 

But  Pup  had  as  sharp  ears  as  his  master,  and  a  still  better 
nose  ;  he  raised  his,  therefore,  in  the  air,  stopped  for  a  moment, 


THE    HUNTEPc    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  87 

then  returned  to  the  old  hunter  and  scratched  his  leomuo-s  with 
his  right  paw. 

"  Yes,  dog — I  know  it  ;'•  said  the  other,  smiling,  as  he  patted 
the  head  of  the  sagacious  beast,  "  I  hear  it,  too,  but  come,  be 
right  careful — we  must  have  bear's  meat  for  supper  to-night." 

"With  this  the  two,  hunter  and  hound,  glided  toward  the 
sound  which  fell  louder  and  more  distinctly  upon  the  ear,  and 
now  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  caused  by  the  breaking 
down  of  heavy  branches,  which,  falling  from  a  height,  rustled 
and  rattled,  far  through  the  silent  wood. 

They  soon  reached  a  small  dry  brook,  in  whose  cnannel  they 
might  have  stealthily  approached  close  beneath  the  tree,  undis 
covered  by  Bruin,  who  was  perched  above.  But  when  about 
fifty  paces  from  the  tree,  the  old  man  paused,  gave  his  dog  a 
sign,  and  raised  himself  cautiously  erect,  in  order  to  get  sight 
of  the  bear,  which,  greedily  devouring  the  acorns  within  its 
reach,  dreamed  bui  little  of  the  proximity  of  so  dangerous  an 
enemv. 

The  bear  was  sitting  about  ninety  feet  from  the  ground,  upon 
a  tolerably  strong  branch,  holding  in  his  paws  a  bough  which 
grew  above  him,  and  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  break  off, 
but  the  pliant  wood  withstood  all  his  efforts,  and  he  was  evi- 
dentl}-  afr^iid  to  venture  flirther  out  lest  the  vreak  branch  might 
give  way  beneath  his  ponderous  w^eight. 

Stevens  had  already  cocked  his  rifle,  but  as  he  saw  from  all 
the  movements  of  the  beast  that  he  found  himself  quite  com- 
fortably lodged  above,  and  would  not  descend  very  speedily,  he 
w^as  in  no  hurry  to  shoot,  but  resolved  first  to  wait  and  see  in 
what  manner  the  huge  fellow  would  demean  himself  when  he 
had  broken  the  branch.  But  Pup,  who  from  the  bed  of  the 
brook  could  see  nothing  of  all  this,  grew  impatient,  and  began 
to  scratch  his  master's  legs  w^th  his  paws. 

''  Pup  !"  whispered  Stevens,  in  a  slightly  threatening  tone. 

Pup,  who  had  seated  himself  upon  his  hind-quarters,  and 
rocked  restlessly  from  one  fore  paw  to  the  other,  obeyed  for  a 
•while  his  master's  warning,  until  again  the  affair  seemed  to  him 
unreasonably  prolonged,  and  a  second  time,  bending  his  head 
far  back,  he  scratched  his  master's  legs.  The  old  man  raised 
his  foot  as  if  to  tread  upon  him.  Pup  was  not  to  be  frightened 
in  this  way,  however,  for  he  knew  very  well  that  his  master 


83  THE  HUNTER.  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

would  not  trend,  ond  he  remained,  therefore,  quietly  in  his  posi- 
tion, without  bctra3'ing  the  slightest  fear. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  bear  had  seen  that  he  could  in  no  way- 
break  off  tlie  branch  which  he  wished  to  have  in  his  possession, 
as  his  position  was  too  insecure  to  permit  him  to  venture  upon 
much  motion  ;  he  clambered,  therefore,  somewhat  higher,  as- 
cended to  tlie  desired  branch,  which,  at  its  farther  extremitv,  bore 
a  mass  of  noble  acorns,  and  endeavored  to  break  it  off,  but  the 
wood  yielded  sooner  than  he  expected,  and  with  some  difficulty 
Bruin  saved  himself  upon  a  neighboring  bough,  where  he  now 
tat  with  great  self  complacency,  and  scratched  his  head. 

Pup  had  leaped  up  at  the  cracking  of  the  branch,  and  looked 
with  eager  attention  at  his  master,  but  still  the  latter  did  not 
make  the  slightest  movement  to  shoot,  for  the  bear  had  now^ 
drawn  the  broken,  jet  not  completely  severed  branch  within 
easy  reach,  and  was  devouring  the  hard-earned  fruit  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction.  The  dog  now  lost  all  patience  ;  he  seized  the 
leathern  fringe  of  his  master's  hunting-shirt,  and  plucked  at  it 
with  such  sudden  violence,  that  the  latter  called  in  a  startled 
tone — "  Pup  !" 

The  sound  reached  the  bear  which  w^as  quietly  feeding,  and 
growing  attentive,  he  paused  in  his  meal,  looked  carefully  down 
from  the  tree  on  all  sides,  and  began  to  feel  less  at  home  in  his 
exalted  position.  Stevens  knew  that  the  right  moment  had 
arrived,  for  as  yet  the  bear  did  not  stir,  as  he  first  wished  to 
know^  from  what  direction  the  suspicious  sound  had  reached 
him,  and  the  hunter,  quickly  and  surely,  raised  the  death-dealing 
tube,  took  aim  for  a  moment,  and  thundering  echoes  bore  the 
crack  of  the  rifle  across  to  the  adjoining  mountains.  The  branch 
escaped  from  the  beast's  paws,  and  swung  back  and  forth  ;  the 
latter,  however,  still  held  firm  in  his  position  for  several  seconds, 
then  nodded  forward  a  few  times,  and  at  last  fell,  head  fore- 
most, from  the  dizzy  height,  down  upon  the  hard  soil,  so  that 
the  ground  trembled. 

Immediately  after  the  shot,  Pup  had  with  a  few  bounds, 
reached  the  open  ground,  and  now,  barking  with  delight,  darted 
towards  the  tree,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  bear,  mortally  wound- 
ed, was  struggling-  in  his  blood,  and  after  a  few  convulsive 
movements,  lay  outstretched  in  death. 

Not  wi.ths  tan  ding  the  impatience  which  Pup  had   thus  far 


THE   HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  89 

manifested,  he  now  demeaned  himself  with  perfect  staidness 
and  propriety.  He  hcked  the  wound  a  httle,  and  then  laid  him- 
self quietly  down  beside  the  lifeless  beast,  to  wait  until  his 
master  had  cut  it  in  pieces,  and  was  ready  to  carry  it  home. 

But  Stevens  had  brought  no  horse  with  him,  as  the  only  one 
he  could  call  his  own,  was  running  wild  in  the  forest,  and  had 
not  appeared  near  the  house  for  several  days.  It  was,  therefore, 
almost  sunset  before  he  reached  home  with  his  last  load,  where 
he  hung  the  hams  and  the  sides  in  the  smoke-house,  spread  out 
the  skhi   to  dry,  and  broiled  for  himself  a  few  very  dehcate 

pieces  from  the  loin. 

"  Here,  Pup,"  he  said,  as  he  cut  off  a  piece  and  reached  it  to 
the  dog,  '"here,  you  wouldn't  eat  out  yonder— perhaps  it  will 
taste  better  now."  But  even  now  it  tasted  no  better,  for  Pup 
smelt  of  the  flesh,  shook  his  head,  and  laid  himself  down  upon 
his  bed.  Stevens  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully,  and  at  last  asked 
in  a  tone  of  sympathy— "  Are  you  sick.  Pup  ?" 

Pup  did  not  think  it  worth  the  trouble  to  answer,  and  was 
soon  buried  in  a  deep  sleep. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

THE      SINGULAR      THEFT. 

The  sun  had  already  appeared  above  the  hiil-tops  on  the  fol- 
lowing mornincr,  when  old  Stevens  rose  from  his  bed;  he  would 
not  hunt  on  this  day,  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  he  cooked  his 
breakfast  with  the  greatest  contentment,  and  then  seated  him- 
self by  the  fire  to  mend  his  moccasins  a  little.  Pup  had  again 
refused  all  food,  and  the  old  man  cast  many  an  anxious  glance 
at  his  favorite,  who,  on  his  part,  seemed  little  to  heed  him,  and 
cowering  upon  his  couch,  lay  with  his  eyes  fast  closed. 

"  Pup",  is  anything  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  after^  a 
while,  during  which  he  had  gazed  attentively  at  the  dog.  "  I 
declare  he  is  wounded!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  and  springing 
from  his  seat,  he  ran  towards  him  to  find  out  what  ailed  bim. 
It  was  no  actual  wound,  however,  but  the  hair  seemed  to  be 
rubbed  off  on  one  of  his  sides,  as  if  by  a  blow  or  scratch,  and 
the  skin  itself,  particularly  in  two  spots,  appeared  broken. 

«  The  cursed  bear !"  said  the  old  man,  sadly,  while  he  stroked 
the  head  of  the  faithful  animal,  "  he  gave  you  a  scratch  then  ? 


90  THE    HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG. 

I  thought  it  was  over  with  him.  But  wait,  Pup,  we  will  soon 
cure  you — clean  bear's  grease  upon  such  wounds,  you  know,  is 
a  sure  cure." 

Pup  cast  a  restless  glance  at  his  master,  wagged  his  tail 
slightly,  then  rose  and  followed  hirn  from  the  hut.  AYhen 
Stevens  opened  his  smoke  house,  his  first  glance  was  at  the 
smoked  hams,  one  of  which  he  feared  might  have  been  stolen 
since  yesterday,  and  he  hastily  ran  his  eye  over  the  row. 

"  One,  two,  throe,  four^  live,  six,  seven,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
l.)ng  drawn  tone,  "  seven  !  Pup,  they  have  stolen  one  of  our 
hams  again  :  I  cannot  stand  this  any  longer.  You  must  sleep 
for  the  future  in  the  smoke-house      Do  you  hear,  Pup  ?" 

Pup  wagged  his  tail  slightly  as  a  sign  that  he  understood  his 
master,  yet  did  not  appear,  however  to  feel  particularly  inter- 
ested in  the  smoke-house,  for  he  was  ...^"iir  }ost  in  deep  contem- 
plation of  the  old  bear's  skull,  w^hile  the  nunier  carefully  walked 
around  the  smoke-house,  and  looked  everywhere  to  see  if  any 
of  the  stakes  w^ere  loose,  or  a  piece  of  bark  displaced  from  the 
roof — but  all  w^as  fast,  and  not  a  single  track  was  anywhere  to 
be  seen. 

"  This  night  you  sleep  in  the  smoke  house,  Pup  !"  repeated 
the  old  man  once  again,  "  w^e  must  put  a  stop  to  this,  and  if  you 
observe  any  thing  suspicious — why,  give  me  notice — perhaps 
we  shall  then  catch  the  thief" 

It  was  no  sooner  said  than  done.  From  this  night  Pup  slept 
on  a  soft  skin  that  was  spread  out  for  him  in  the  smoke-house, 
and  the  thefts  ceased,  yet  the  change  of  air  seemed  to  operate 
very  favorably  upon  the  dog's  health  also,  for  his  side  healed, 
Sind  his  appetite  returned  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner — he  ate 
every  thing  that  came  in  his  way,  bears'  and  deers'  flesh,  nay, 
at  times,  he  did  not  refuse  even  the  despised  roast  turkey. 

Aftei  about  a  fortnight,  during  w^hich  nothing  remarkable 
had  happened,  Pup  seemed  no  longer  inchned  to  occupy  his 
new  sleeping  chamber,  for  he  came  one  day  to  his  master's 
couch  and  cowered  down  at  his  feet. 

"  All  safe,  Pup  ?"  asked  Stevens,  "  all  safe,  dog  ?  Are  you 
tired  of  keeping  watch  out  there  ?" 

The  dog  seemed  to  understand  his  master's  question,  for  he 
raised  himself  slightly  and  brushed  his  fore  paW  over  his  moc- 
casins. 


THE   HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  91 

"  Good  dog  !"  said  Stevens,  and  patted  his  head,  "  capitrl 
dog!" 

Both  now  had  agreed  to  leave  the  smoke-house  this  ni^ht  to 
its  fate.  But  what  was  the  hunter's  astonishment  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  as  he  glanced  at  his  smoked  hams  and  found 
only  six!  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  mystery  ?  Dur- 
ing the  last  few  days  he  had  shot  four  other  deer,  whose  hams 
were  also  hung  up,  but  the  midnight  thief  preferred  the  dry 
smoked  ones,  and  did  not  touch  the  other  flesh. 

"  Pup  !"  said  Stevens,  "  this  is  very  strange.  I  must  lie 
awake  to-night — the  moon  shines,  and  if  I  push  aside  the  skins 
I  can  have  a  fair  shot  at  the  smoke-house  from  my  bed.  But 
come  here,  and  leave  that  cursed  old  skull  alone — and  you,  Pup, 
shall  sleep  in — no,  not  in  the  smoke-house  but  outside  of  it — if 
any  body  comes  you  have  the  better  nose  and  can  pursue 
him." 

For  three  nights  in  succession,  Stevens  lay  awake,  and  Pup 
ghded  about  the  smoke-house  in  the  moonlight,  but  nothing  was 
seen  ;  on  the  fourth,  when  both,  wearied  with  much  watching, 
sought  their  beds,  the  thief  came  again,  and  on  the  next  morn- 
ing but  five  hams  were  found  hanging  in  their  places.  The 
patience  of  a  saint  would  not  have  been  proof  against  such  an 
occurrence,  and  Stevens  was  but  an  ordinary  Christian  man  ; 
he  stood,  therefore,  holding  the  door  with  one  hand,  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  smoke-house,  or  rather  on  the  place  where  the 

threshold  should  have  been,  and  swore — "  he  would   be  d d 

if  he  knew  how  that  could  iiave  happened  !"  Neither  did  Pup 
know,  for  he  stood  close  to  his  master,  and  looked  also  in  won- 
der at  the  peg,  from  which  no  longer  hung  the  last  stolen  ham. 
Both  shook  their  heads  in  the  s:reatest  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE      STRATAGEM. 

The  business  now  began  to  look  exceedingly  mysterious  to 
old  Stevens — there  was  something  truly  inexplicable  in  the 
whole  affair,  and  he  resolved  to  watch  yet  another  night,  and 
by  break  of  day  on  the  following  morning  to  counsel  about  his 
matter  with  the  nearest  neighbor,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  probe 
Jthe  business  to  the  bottom.   Now  this  next  neio:hbor  lived  some 


92  THE  HUNTER  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

twenty  miles  distant,  but  as  the  old  hunter's  harse  was  grazing 
in  that  direction,  he  resolved  to  search  for  it  on  this  occasion, 
and  so  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone. 

When  he  returned  to  his  hut  he  took  down  his  rifle,  cleaned 
the  lock,  poured  fresh  deer's  grease  into  the  cavity  in  the  stock, 
cut  a  pair  of  new  thongs  to  tie  his  leggings  with,  and  cast  a  few 
balls. 

Pup,  in  the  mean  while,  as  he  saw  his  master  busied  with  his 
rifle,  had  laid  down  before  him,  and  was  now  looking  at  him 
wistfully  with  his  large,  dark  eyes,  for  he  expected,  doubtless, 
that  they  were  about  to  take  a  ramble  in  the  forest.  But  the 
poor  beast,  although  he  had  probably  slept  the  whole  night, 
seemed  strangely  wearied  ;  after  a  few  moments  his  eye-lids 
closed,  and  with  his  head  far  outstretched,  he  nodded  now^ 
toward  this  side,  now  toward  that. 

"  Go  to  sleep.  Pup,"  said  the  old  man,  "  we  will  not  hunt  to- 
day.    You  can  lie  down  in  quiet." 

Pup  did  not  wait  to  hear  this  twice ;  he  rose,  stretched  out 
first  the  left,  then  the  right  hind  leg,  scratched  himself  with  ex- 
traordinary dexterity  on  the  throat,  leaped  upon  his  bed,  turned 
round  the  customary  three  times,  and  laid  himself  down  to  take 
a  long  sleep. 

Stevens,  in  the  mean  while,  had  taken  his  ball-pouch  from 
the  peg,  and  examined  its  contents,  to  see  whether  all  was  in 
order  for  his  morrow's  journey — nine  baHs,  and  one  in  his  rifle 
were  ten — that  was  enough  for  three  or  four  days  :  a  file,  three 
flints,  a  piece  of  sponge,  some  tow  for  swabbing  out  "his  rifle,  a 
piece  of  fine  leather  for  patches,  a  screw-driver,  a  w^histle  to 
decoy  the  wild  turkey,  and  a  small  bag  of  salt — aH  was  in  order, 
and  he  w^as  in  the  act  of  pouring  from  a  large  horn,  some  pow- 
der into  the  one  which  he  commonly  carried  about  him,  when 
Pup  moved  restlessly  npon  his  bed,  and  began  to  whine  softly 
— the  dog  was  dreaming. 

"  Hem  !"  said  Stevens,  as  he  glanced  with  a  smile  at  his  dog. 
"  The  old  Indian  w^ho  w^as  with  me  w'hen  I  shot  the  bear  lately, 
told  me  that  if  a  man  spread  his  handkerchief  over  the  head  of 
a  dreaming  dog,  and  afterwards  laid  it  under  his  own  head,  and 
fell  asleep,  he  would  dream  the  dog's  dream  right  over  again. 
Shall  I  try  it  for  once  with  Pup  ?" 

Pup  now  began  to  scratch  with  both  his  fore  legs,  as  if  be 


THE   HUNIER    STEVENS    AND    HiS    DOG.  93 

were  caught  in  some  narrow  place,  and  was  trying  to  get  loose, 
while  at  the  same  time  he  whined  softly  and  pitifully. 

u  I_I  will  try  it !"  said  the  old  man  with   a  smile,  took  off 
his  neckcloth,  spread  it  over  the  head  of  the  sleeping  dog,  and 
closely  observed  his  movements.     For  a  good  while  he  lay 
motionless,  his  rapid  breathing  alone  told  that  his  mind  (not  his 
instinct,  for  the  instinct  cannot  dreamj   ^vas  in  operation ;  at 
last  he  becran  to  paw  with  his  two  fore  feet,  then  again  lay  qmet 
for  a  while,  then  suddenly  straggled  with  all  his  might,  and  after 
that  did  not  stir.     Stevens  took  the  neckcloth   softly  from  the 
head  of  his  do^r,  placed  it  beneath  his  own,  and  in  five  minutes 
was  sound  asleep,  for  a  true  hunter  must  be  able  to  take  advan- 
tage of  every  opportunity  for  repose,  that  he  may  have  no  lead 
in^his  e^^e-hds  when  it  becomes  necessary  for  him  to  remain 
awake  and  watchful,  perhaps  for  a  considerable  space  of  time. 

The  autumn  sun  shone  warm  and  friendly  upon  the  hunter's 
hut,  in  which  the  occupants  were  slumbering. 

CHAPTER    VI. 

THE      DISCOVERY. 

It  might  have  been  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when 
Stevens  awoke.  Pup,  who  during  the  last  half  hour  had  been 
busy  without  the  hut,  had  just  entered  the  door  again,  and  now 
lay  quietly  in  his  old  place,  but  Stevens  raised  himself  half 
erect  in  his  bed,  and  looked  for  a  long  while  upon  the  ground 
as  if  sunk  in  thought.  He  then  glanced  at  the  dog,  breathed 
a  heavy  sigh,  as  if  in  great  pain,  shook  his  head,  and  called— 

«  Pup  1" 

Pup  was  awake,  he  therefore  at  once  opened  his  eyes  and 
wagged  his  tail  shghtly,  but  his  master  only  shook  his  head  the 
more  violently,  and  cast  upon  the  dog  a  reproachful  glance, 
which  he  kept  steadily  fastened  upon  him.  Pup  seemed  to  feel 
uncomfortable  beneath  this  glance:  he  raised  his  head  in  the 
air,  and  looked  slowly,  first  towards  one,  and  then  toward  the 
other  side,  but  always  met  again  the  fixed  and  steadfast  glance 
of  his  master,  so  that  at  last  as  if  impelled  by  some  iaward 
power,  he  rose,  went  up  to  him,  rubbed  his  head  against  him, 
and  tried  to  lick  his  hand  which  hung  over  the  bed-side,  but 
Stevens  drew  it  back  and  repeated  his  reproachful  "  Pap  !" 


94  THE  HUNTER  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

"  Bow  !  \vbow !"  barked  the  dog,  and  with  his  fore  paw 
he  scratched  the  old  man's  knee,  as  if  he  would  have  said — 
"  Come  !  no  jesting — I  hate  that !"  But  tlie  latter  thrust  him 
back,  set  his  feet  upon  the  floor,  so  that  he  sat  upright,  and 
then  addressed  the  attentively  listening  animal  as  follows: 

"  Pup,  for  four  years  from  the  time  when  3'ou  were  a  very 
little  Pup,  we  have  lived  together  in  true  friendship — I  have 
never  beaten  j^'ou  except  twice,  once  as  we  were  following  the 
track  of  a  bear  and  you  ran  off  after  a  rabbit,  and  afterv^-ards 
once  when  you  would  not  go  under  the  tree  i>n  which  the  wild 
cat  was,  and  I  had  but  a  single  ball  with  me.  Have  you  not 
always  had  enough  to  eat  ?  have  I  ever  let  you  want  for  any- 
thing? And  that  time  when  I  could  not  get  a  single  shot  at 
anything  for  three  days,  did  I  not  fairly  divide  the  last  morsel 
with  you,  and  afterwards  we  both  hungered  together  ?  Have 
you  anything  to  say  against  this  ?" 

Pup,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  gazed  at  every  spot  in  the  cham 
ber,  except  at  his  master's  face,  and  seemed'^to  feel  by  no  means 
at  ease  and  comfortable,  nay,  he  even  glanced  once  sorrowfu'liy 
towards  the  door,  as  if  he  would  say,  "  If  I  could  only  get  out!' 
But  although  the  door  stood  open,  he  did  not  stir  from  thf 
spot — he  had  a  guilty  conscience  ! 

"Pup,"  continued  the  old  man,  after  a  short  pause,  "  Pup, 
you  are  an  ungrateful,  wicked  dog — you  have  abused  my  kind- 
ness, stolen  into  my  confidence,  and  now  you  are  a  thief  Yes, 
Pup,  you  are  a  thief  Do  j^ou  see  that  loose  board  there  in  the 
corner,  near  the  chimney  ?  There  you  creep  out  at  night.  Do  3^ou 
deny  it  ?"  he  continued  angrily,  as  Pup,  almost  as  if  he  were  in- 
nocent, rose  and  smelt  of  the  designated  spot.  "  Do  you  deny  it  ? 
Hear,  then,  what  I  dreamed  of  j^ou,  to-day.  Scarcely  was  the  cloth 
which  caught  5^our dream,  under  my  head,  when  I  fell  asleep,  and 
at  the  same  moment,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  I  found  myself  in 
a  hole  near  that  chimney  corner,  with  my  head  and  half  my  body 
out.side  the  hut  I  strug2:led  through  with  infinite  exertion  ;  my 
side  smarted  when  I  reached  the  ground,  but  still  on  I  ran,  and 
to  my  amazement,  on  all  fours,  to  the  door  of  the  smoke-house, 
and  then  drew  out  the  peg  with  my  teeth,  instead  of,  as  usual, 
with  my  hand.  Pup,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  repeat  what  I 
did  there.  I  clambered  upon  the  salt  gum,  tore  one  of  the 
smoked  venison  hams  from  its  place,  carried  it  out,  fastened  the 


THE    HUNTER    STEVEXS    AND     HIS    DOG.  95 

door  carefully,  and  ran  with  the  ham  into  the  thicket  across 
yonrler  by  the  fallen  oak." 

With  a  heavy  sigh  the  old  man  here  paused  in  his  narration, 
and  shook  his  head  reproachfully  at  Pup,  but  the  latter  could 
rest  nowhere ;  he  balanced  himself  first  on  one  leg,  then  on  the 
other,  looked  now  in  this  corner,  now  in  that,  scratched  the 
earth  a  few  times  with  his  fore  paw.  (for  no  Hoor  was  laid  in  the 
simple  dwelling,)  and  glanced  with  longing  eyes  towards  the 
open  door,  but  still  did  not  venture  to  quit  the  chamber. 

"When  there,"  continued  the  hunter  sadly,  v/hile  with  his 
open  palm  he  brushed  from  his  eyes  two  big  tears,  "  when 
there,  I  laid  myself  upon  it  with  both  hands — it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  they  were  paws — and  gnawed  the  flesh  from  the 
bone — I  then  buried  the  remains  under  the  leaves  and  moss, 
and  returned  through  the  hole  near  the  chimney,  here  into  the 
chamber,  where,  to  conceal  my  shameful  act,  I  pushed  back  the 
board  which  hid  the  opening  within,  then  went  to  my  bed, 
turned  myself  a  few  times  around  in  a  very  singular  fashion, 
and  laid  down.  Stay  here,  Pup  ?"  he  now  cried  in  a  loud  tone 
to  the  latter,  who  by  many  windings  had  brought  himself  quite 
near  to  the  door,  and  was  now  upon  the  point  of  withdrawing 
from  the  conversation,  whicli  w\as  become  decidedly  disagree- 
able, "  stay,  Pup  !  are  you  not  ashamed,  you  wicked,  ungrate- 
ful dog  ?  But  wait — we  will  first  find  the  j^roof  of  your  guilt — ■ 
come  wuth  me  to  your  hiding-place." 

With  these  words,  Stevens  took  his  rifle  and  powder-horn, 
(for  a  true  hunter  does  not  go  ten  steps  from  his  house  without 
his  weapon,)  and  with  a  commanding  gesture,  directed  the  dog 
to  follow  him.  Pup,  however,  whose  suspicions  had  probably 
been  excited  by  his  master's  vaiious  gestures  toward  the  chim- 
ney-corner, scarcely  remarked  the  direction  which  the  old  man 
took,  when  he  hung  his  ears,  drew  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and 
stole  after  him  very  disconsolately.  Twice  he  stopped  upon 
the  way,  and  looked  back  wistfully  toward  the  house,  but 
Stevens  watched  him  closeh^,  and  he  endeavored  in  vain  to 
escape  his  attention.  At  last  they  reached  the  place  where 
Stevens  had,  in  his  dream,  buried  the  bones — there  lay  the  tree, 
here  was  the  old  root  overgrown  with  thick  bushes  of  sassafras 
and  wild  vines,  and  close  at  the  foot  of  the  tree — Stevens  pushed 
the  leaves  and  moss  aside  with  his  rifle — lay  the  proofs  of  the 
theft — the  remains  of  the  stolen  hams. 


9G  THE  HUNTER  STEVENS  AND  HIS  DOG. 

If  Pnp  at  this  moment  could  have  crept  through  a  hole  into 
a  hollow  branch,  he  would  have  done  it  with  the  greatest  plea- 
sure in  the  world,  so  disconsolate,  so  wretched  did  he  feel  at 
heart ;  ho  beheld  himself  discovered,  convicted,  and  knew  that 
the  glance  of  his  usnall}''  so  kind  master,  was  fastened  upon  him 
with  vexation  and  displeasure.  Pup  considered  himself  at  this 
momeut  incontcstibly  the  most  miserable  doo;  in  all  Missouri. 

With  drooping  head,  trembling  limbs,  and  half-closed  eyes, 
looking  sorrowfully  at  the  green  leaves,  he  stood  for  a  long 
while  awaiting  rebuke,  or  even  chastisement  from  his  master. 
But  to  his  o;reat  astonishment  uothinof  of  the  kind  followed 
Old  SteV'Cns  gazed  upon  him  for  a  while  rather  s'adly  than 
sternly,  then  shouldered  his  rifle,  and  walked  silently  into  the 
forest.     Pup  followed  him  sorrowfully. 

Night  came,  and  the  two  laid  themselves  beneath  the  spread- 
ing branches  of  an  oak — but  the  tie  of  friendship  which  had 
once  united  them  was  broken.  Pup,  indeed,  tried  once  to  knit 
together  the  severed  threads,  but  Stevens  kept  him  off,  and 
said — "  Go,  thou  art  a  wolf!"  and  he  could  not  have  rebuked 
more  severely,  for  both  abhorred  nothing  in  the  world  more 
than  a  wolf  Pup  went  sadly  away  and  laid  himself  far  from 
the  fire  and  his  master,  beneath  a  tree. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  PUNISHMENT. 

At  break  of  day  on  the  following  morning,  Stevens  traveled 
onward,  and  about  ten  o'clock  reached  the  Missouri.  At  first 
his  intent  had  been  of  a  more  cruel  nature ;  the  greater  his 
former  love  for  his  dog,  so  much  the  more  painfully  was  he  now 
affected  by  the  deceit  of  his  character,  and  he  had  at  first  pur- 
posed to  shoot  him  through  the  head ;  he  could  not,  however, 
bring  his  rnind  to  this,  but  resolved  rather  to  take  him  to  the 
nearest  settlement,  and  there  give  him  away,  although  he  well 
knew  how  hard  it  would  be  to  prevent  the  dog  from  returning. 

As  he  thus  sat,  gazing  sadly  and  irresolutely  upon  the  ground, 
ho  heard  coming  down  the  river,  one  of  those  steamboats  which 
now  and  then  ascend  the  stream,  partly  to  carry  the  mountain, 
hunters  farther  into  the  interior,  partly  to  take  the  skins  and 
furs  of  the  trappers,  as  well  as  the  produce  of  the  farmers,  to 


THE    HUNTER.    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  97 

St.  Louis.  "When  a  few  hundred  paces  from  the  spot  where 
he  was  seated,  the  steamboat  stopped  to  take  on  board  several 
cords  of  wood  which  had  been  spUt  and  piled  up  here  by  those 
settlers  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood. 

Stevens  walked  towards  the  boat. 

"  Hallo,  old  man  !  you  have  a  noble  dog  there !"  cried  one 
of  the  passengers,  a  fair-haired,  slender  man.     "  Will  you  sell 

him  ?" 

"  Sell  him  ?"  cried  Stevens,  "  No,  never  while  I  live  !  but  if 
you  want  him,  and  will  promise  me  to  take  him  far  away— and 
treat  him  well,"  he  added,  after  a  side  glance  at  Pup,  who  stood 
quite  downcast  beside  him,  "why  then— then   you  can  have 

him." 

"  Really  !"  cried  the  stranger  in  astonishment,  for  he  had 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  noble,  long-haired  animal.  "  ^Vell,  I 
am  going  to  sail  in  the  next  packet  from  New-Orleans  to  Lon- 
don.    Is  that  far  enough  for  you  ?" 

"  Take  him  !"  said  Stevens,  and  turned  away.  At  this  moment 
the  bell  was  heard  from  the  boat,  which  was  ready  to  start. 
The  Enghshman  quickly  tied  his  handkerchief  about  the  neck 
of  the  unresisting  animal,  drew  him  on  board,  and  the  next  min- 
ute they  left  the  shore. 

TJntii  now,  Pup,  oppressed  by  a  guilty  conscience,  and  dis- 
turbed  by  the  silent  behavior  of  his  master,  had  kept  perfectly 
Btill,  but  when  he  beheld  the  distance  between  himself  and  his 
old 'friend  growing  every  instant  greater,  a  foreboding  of  his 
fate  suddenly  gleamed  upon  him,  and  he  whined  and  barked  as 
in  old  times  when  he  summoned  his  master  to  the  hunt.  The 
tender  heart  of  the  old  hunter,  already  so  deeply  pained  at  part- 
ino-  with  his  do^,  could  not  withstand  this  appeal.     He  turned 

and  called — 

"  Pup,  my  dog,  come  here  !"  and  howling  with  delight,  Pup 
was  abont  to  obey  the  call,  but  his  new  owner  had  probably 
anticipated  something  of  this  sort,  and  the  next  moment  the 
poor  beast  found  himself  fastened  by  a  strong  chain,  from  which 
with  all  his  struggles  he  was  unable  to  free  himself 

«  Pup  !  Pup  !"  cried  the  old  hunter  in  deep  grief— but  Pup's 
form  was  already  vanishing  in  the  far  distance ;  his  call  echoed 
across  like  a  gentle  breath,  and  the  steamboat  sped,  snorting 
and  groaning,  down  the  stream. 


98  THE   HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOO 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE     PURSUIT. 

Four  days  Liter,  a  horseman  in  a  leathern  hunting  shirt,  with 
a  rifie  upon  his  shoulder,  pushed  his  weary,  jaded  norse,  through 
the  streets  of  St.  Louis,  toward  the  steamboat  landisg.  When 
there,  he  sprang  from  the  saddle  and  inquired  of  a  cartman  who 
was  standing  at  the  water's  edge,  after  the  steamboat  "  Yel- 
low Stone." 

"  She  sailed  yesterday  for  New  Orleans,"  said  the  man,  as  he 
lifted  the  last  barrel  of  flour  upon  the  cart,  and  then  drove  into 
the  city ;  but  the  horseman  stood  yet  for  an  hour  upon  the  bank 
of  the  broad  Mississippi,  and  gazed  along  the  swiftly  hurrying 
stream.  Then  he  raised  himself  slowly  into  the  saddle,  and  with- 
out deigning  to  cast  another  glance  at  St.  Louis,  rode  back  into 
the  forest. 

CONCLUSION. 

The  rest  is  soon  told.  Pup  w^as  taken  to  England,  and  as  ho 
had  sadly  pined  upon  the  passage,  he  was  nursed  by  his  new^ 
master  with  the  utmost  kindness  and  affection.  Pup  saw  this 
also  perfectly  well,  thought  much  of  his  new^  protector,  but 
took  no  interest  in  anything  else,  ate  what  was  offered  him,  and 
lived  through  the  autumn  and  winter  in  England,  as  quietly 
and  contentedly  as  a  poor  dog,  an  exile  from  his  native  land, 
could  live. 

But  when  the  spring  came  with  its  new  buds  and  blossoms, 
wdien,  after  her  long  winter's  sleep,  nature  awoke  with  renewed 
strength  and  fresh  joy,  and  when  the  swallows  returned  to  the 
houses,  when  all  grew  green  and  blossomed,  when  the  birds 
twittered  and  the  tame  turkeys  strutted,  clucking  about  the 
farm-yard,  poor  Pup's  heart  sank  within  him — he  thougiit  of 
his  forest  home,  of  the  now  green,  glorious  groves,  of  the  sil- 
very brook  which  dashed  by  the  house ;  he  thought  of  the  hunts 
by  the  salt  lick,  where  he  had  watched  so  many  nights  by  his 
master — he  thought  of  the  free,  fair  forest  life,  how^  m.uch  bluer 
the  sky  when  viewed  through  those  branches,  how  much  brighter 
the  stars  when  beheld  throuoh  the  thick  bushes — he  thought 


THE   HUNTER    STEVENS    AND    HIS    DOG.  99 

of  the  tracks  of  the  wild  beasts,  of  his  fights  \Yith  the  bear  and 
panther,  and  his  heart  was  near  breaking— he  grew  melancholy, 
drew  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  went  about  a  picture  of  dis- 
consolate v.'oe. 

At  one  time  his  master  feared  that  Pup  was  mad,  and  set  a 
basin  of  water  before  him.  Pup  drank  it,  however,  without 
nesitation.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  the  children  who  had  grown 
fond  of  the  large,  good  tempered  beast,  brought  him  all  kinds 
of  delicacies.  True,  he  ate  them,  but  remained,  notwithstand- 
ing, sorrowful  and  downcast. 

One  day  his  master,  who  still  kept  up  communications  with 
America,  received  a  box  from  St.  Louis  ;  he  opened  it— Pup 
vras  looking  on— and  took  out,  one  after  another,  one,  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine  smoked  venison  hams. 

This  was  too  much — former  sad  remembrances  rushed  across 
the  poor  beast's  heart— he  thought  of  his  former  master,  how^ 
fonclly  the  old  man  had  loved  him,  how-  shamefully  he  had  de- 
ceived him,  how  fearfully  he  had  suffered  for  it,  and  suddenly 
resolved  to  put  an  end  to  a  life  which  w^as  so  full  of  remorse 
and  torment  to  him,  and  plunged  into  the  stream  that  flowed  at 
the  rear  of  the  house.  The  rest,  too  painful  to  repeat,  has  been 
pubhshed  in  all  the  journals ;  we  will  add  this  only,  that  his 
lifeless  remains  were  drawn  from  the  greedy  flood,  and  received 
a  decent  burial.  Poor  Pup  !  thou  liest  in  a  foreign  land,  in  for- 
eign soil,  and  it  was  but  a  single  fault  that  banished  thee  from 

thy  home  ! 

But  thy  master — what  became  of  thy  poor  old  master? 
Silent  and  solitary  he  returned  to  his  hut,  and  for  months  long 
his  rifle  remained  untouched  and  unheeded,  lying  upon  the  two 
braces  over  the  door.  Old  Stevens  had  fiillen  ill ;  a  violent  fever 
had  confined  him  to  his  bed,  which  he  only  left  at  intervals  to 
crawl  to  the  neighboring  brook  for  a  draught  of  cool  water. 
But  v;hen  the  spring  came  with  its  new  buds  and  blossoms, 
when  after  her  lono;  winter's  sleep,  nature  awoke  with  renewed 
strength  and  fresh  joy,  when  the  swallows  returned  to  the  hut, 
and  all  '^vew  green  and  blossomed ;  when  the  birds  twittered, 
and  the  wild  turkeys  were  heard  in  the  woods,  then  the  old  man 
grew  too  sad,  too  lonely  in  his  formerly  so  cheerful  hut.  He 
cleaned  his  rifle  from  dust  and  rust,  he  took  out  his  hunting  im- 
plements again,  saddled  his  horse,  and  rode  far,  far  to  the  w^est. 


100  A    PICTURE. 


to  the  distant  prairies.  But  all  beside  that  he  iook  with  him 
from  his  former  dwelling  to  his  new  home,  was  a  bear-skin, 
"which  he  carried  rolled  up  behind  him  upoE  the  saddle — the 
skin  of  that  same  bear  which  he  killed  when  he  hunted  for  tho 
last  time  with  his  dog  Pup. 


i4M>- 


A   PICTURE. 


BY    JULIA    A.    PLETCHEK. 


I  saw  a  man  of  fearful  crime 
With  hurried  step  pass  by, 

As  if  from  guilt's  enslaving  power 
He  vainly  sought  to  fly  ; 

It  dwelt  upon  his  haggard  brow, 
And  in  his  gleaming  eye. 

And  then  I  asked,  can  he  be  saved 
From  passion's  fearful  sway  1 

Can  his  dark  pathway  be  illumed 
By  virtue's  pleasant  ray  1 

But  then  with  bounding  step  flew  past 
A  merry  child  at  play. 


Thus  met  they  then— that  man  of  guilt— 
That  child  who  knew  no  wrong— 

And  with  a  cry  of  glad  surprise 
He  hushed  his  bird-like  song  ; 

"  Oh,  father !  I  am  glad  your'e  come, 
You  have  been  gone  so  long." 

Tears !  holy  tears  !  From  guilt-sealed  four  ts 

Gushed  many  a  cleansing  rill, 
And  then  I  knew  that  dark-browcd  man 

Might  yet  be  won  from  ill. 
He  still  had  one  whom  he  could  love, 

Had  one  to  love  him  still. 


A    GLIMPSE     AT     FAIRY    LAND. 


BY    CAROLINE    BRIGGS. 


There  is  a  charm  in  an  old  country  farm-house,  a  great, 
weather-stained,  generous  farm-house,  with  its  over-hanging 
eves,  its  moss-covered  roof,  where  the  trilling  swallows  make 
their  yearly  home  and  welcome  the  summer  ;  a  house  so  old 
and  dingy,  that  it  seems  with  its  accompanying  well  and  drip- 
ping bucket,  as  much  a  fabric  of  nature's  own  handiwork,  as 
the  noble  trees  that  tower  above  it ;  the  mountains  in  the  blue 
distance  ;  the  dim,  dark  mass  in  the  west,  behind  which  the 
sun  sleeps  at  night,  or  the  brook  that  ripples  by  the  door  stone; 
that  dear  old  door-stone  with  its  thronging  pleasant  memories, 
how  gladly  my  feet  pressed  its  moss-grown  surface  one  early 
summer  morning,  after  the  long  tedious  months  of  city-life.  The 
pure,  fresh  breezes  were  playing  with  the  nodding  flowers  and 
the  long  waving  grass  that  drooped  under  its  sparkling  burden 
of  glittering  dew-drops  ;  how  the  sun  hngere-d  and  glanced  in 
each  tiny  diamond,  making  a  pathway  of  more  than  regal  splen- 
dor for  the  wandering  zephyrs  ;  the  morning  birds  were  lading 
the  air  with  sweet  sounds,  and  my  heart  danced  in  the  universal 
joy,  such  pure  untroubled  gladness  as  nature  alone  can  minister. 
The  sun  was  flinging  me  warm  kisses,  and  the  cooling  breeze 
that  played  over  my  brow  won  me  to  wander  with  them,  and 
ere  long  I  found  my  favorite  nook  in  these  "  grand  old  woods." 

The  tufted  moss  at  the  foot  of  the  gnarled  willow,  was  a  soft 
seat  of  nature's  own  providing,  and  as  I  listened  to  the  musical 
rustle  of  the  wind-stirred  leaves,  and  dreamily  watched  the 
weaving  of  the  light,  fantastic,  ever-changing  net-work  which 
they  and  the  sun-flecks  wrought  so  delicately  at  my  feet,  I  fan- 
cied it  would  be  a  fitting  spot  for  a  fairy-revel,  and  wished  that 
they  might  again  appear  to  mortals  as  they  did  in  the  "  good 
old  times."  Ere  long  I  was  startled  by  a  little  tinkling  sound 
and  the  petals  of  a  blue  bell,  that  grew  beside  me,  softly  un- 
closed, and  a  tiny  creature,  arrayed  in  what  I  deemed  a  butter- 


102  A    GLIMPSE    AT    FAIRYL  VND. 

fly's  holiday  suit,  appeared,  and  thus  addressed  me  in  sweetest 
murmurs  : 

"  Mortal !  a  kind  fortune  hath  directed  thy  steps  to  this  lovely 
spot,  for  I  am  the  queen  of  the  fiiiries,  and  this  hour  I  hold  my 
court,  and  here  my  loyal  subjects  come  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  from  all  parts  of  thy  pleasant  earth  and  whisper  of  the 
success  of  their  missions.  Silence  is  the  onl}''  restriction  1  im- 
pose— observe  it  strictly — for  the  sound  of  mortal  voice  would 
put  to  flight  all  Fairy  Land,  and  when  our  court  disperses,  one 
wish  shall  be  wanted  thee." 

Eagerly  I  looked  and  listened  in  breathless  silence  ;  the  little 
queen  waved  her  wand,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  a  rustling  hum 
as  of  myriad  gossamer  wings,  and  there  came  a  busy  murmur 
from  the  waving,  trembling  flowers  kround  me,  and  wonderingly 
I  saw  a  fairy-group  emerge  from  each  perfumed  cup  and  bell. 
Quickly  and  noiselessly  they  assembled  around  their  sovereign, 
each  with  reverent  obedience,  a  moment's  stillness,  and  then  a 
tiny  fairy  came  tripping  forth,  whom  the  queen  called  the 
"  Fairy  of  Good  Gifts."  B'reathlessly  I  caught  the  silvery  tones 
of  the  white-robed  creature  as  she  spoke  thus  : 

"  0  gentle  queen,  I  have  wandered  far  from  the  forest  glades 
to  the  busy  haunts  of  a  crowded  city.  On  its  thronged  pave- 
ment I  found  a  pale-faced  child  with  tattered  garments  and 
bare  and  aching  feet,  and  as  I  watched  her,  the  tears  trickled 
fast  over  her  wan  face,  as  with  extended  hands  she  supplicated 
charity  for  a  dying  mother.  Just  then  a  gentle  lady  came  near, 
and  I  whispered  to  her  of  the  child's  sorrow — her  heart  was 
touched,  and  she  spoke  kindly  to  the  little  one  whose  tears  were 
soon  chased  by  brightest  smiles.  As  I  left  them,  the  lady 
clasped  the  hand  of  the  way-worn  child,  and  departed  on  her 
'  mission  of  mercy,'  fair}''  prompted." 

The  queen  smiled  approvingly  and  the  fairy  vanished. 
Another  knelt  at  the  feet  of  her  sovereign,  and  thus  addressed 
her: 

"  0  fairest  queen,  thou  knowest  full  well  that  I  have  loved 
ever  to  visit  the  hearts  of  the  children  of  mortals,  and  minorle 
in  their  innocent  sports ;  to-day  I  have  hovered  near  tv;o  little 
ones,  within  whose  hearts  anger  had  found  place  while  en- 
gaged in  their  childish  play.  I  whispered  to  the  little  bright- 
faced  girl,  'loving  smiles  are  the  best  of  all  weapons,'  and   as 


A    GLIMPSE    OF    FAIRY-LAND.  10 


o 


fthe  flung  her  arms  lovingly  around  the  neck  of  her  brother  and 
proffered  the  kiss  of  peace,  m^^  mission  was  accomplished." 

As  the  spirit  of  *'  Loving  Smiles"  retreated,  a  I.ily  of  the 
Valley  at  my  feet  rung  its  tiny  bells,  and  a  little  drooping  sprite 
with  a  sad,  sweet  face,  glided  lightly  over  the  moss  to  the  feet 
of  her  sovereign. 

"  Gentle  queen,"  murmured  she,  "  I  have  lingered  to-day,  as 
ever,  amid  scenes  of  sadness  ;  but  now  I  left  the  cot  where  a 
mother  wept  over  her  dead  boy,  her  darling  one,  caressing  his 
golden  curls  in  her  wild  grief  Softly  I  whispered  to  her  heart, 
*  This  is  but  a  frail  remembrancer  of  thy  child,  his  shadowless 
spirit  hath  gone  to  the  light-lands  above.'  As  she  lifted  her 
saddened  eyes,  the  tears  were  already  dried  in  the  sun-rays  that 
streamed  from  the  home  of  her  boy,  now  her  angel  child." 

Again  the  queen  uttered  w^ords  which  my  untaught  ear  could 
not  catch,  and  the  sweet  fahy  of  "  Tears"  gave  place  to  another, 
who  thus  told  her  mission  of  love  : 

"  To-day  I  sought  a  beautiful  garden  where  two  children 
were  playing ;  the  sad  face  and  dark  garments  of  the  one  told 
of  orphanage,  and  contrasted  painfully  with  the  laughing,  happy 
face  of  her  companion.  In  a  moment  of  rest,  memory  touched 
a  chord  in  the  heart  of  the  lone  orphan,  and  a  tear  glistened 
in  her  eye.  Softly  I  spoke  to  her  playmate,  of  sympathy 
and  its  strong,  deep  powder  to  cheer  the  sorrowing  heart. 
As  her  arms  encircled  the  stricken  one,  and  the  wealth  of  her 
heart  was  lavished  npon  her,  I  deemed  my  words  of  some  avail." 

The  fairy  of  "  Gentle  Words"  retreated,  and  the  queen  mov- 
ing her  magical  wand,  the  air  was  again  filled  with  the  rustling 
hum  and  murmur,  as  before,  and  the  fairies  hied  them  away. 
Then  with  sweetest  voice  the  sovereign  of  the  spirits  murmured, 
•'  Mortal,  thou  hast  heard  of  the  fairies'  missions,  and  now,  of 
their  gifts  one  may  be  thine — which  hast  thou  chosen  ?"  Softly 
I  whispered,  "  0  fairest  and  gentlest  of  queens,  I  would  that  I 
might  combine  all  in  one — the  powers  of  making  others  happy — 
and  never,  never  forget  the  teachings  of  the  kind  and  loving 
fairies."  "  It  is  thine,"  was  her  gracious  response,  and  then 
bidding  me  a  silvery  "farewell,"  the  petals  of  the  Blue-bell 
tremblingly  opened,  and  as  the  Fairy  Queen  sank  into  its  per- 
fumed bosom,  I  awoke  with  the  abiding  memory  of  my 
dream.     The  royal  gift  has  since  proved  to  me  a  gift  indeed. 


THE    POET'S    DEATH 


BY    ISABELLA    STEVENS. 


There  it  stood,  that  grand  old  forest,  there  they  stood,  th  )se  ancient  treos, 

With  their  stalwart  arras  all  grandly  waving  in  the  genial  breeze  ; 

Downward  through  the  pleasant  sunshine,  lingering  shadows  did  they  fling, 

While  from  out  the  deep  recesses,  conies  a  sweet  low  murmuring, 

Where  the  brook  light-hearted  wanders,  whisp'ring  low  among  ths  reeds, 

And  with  quiet  laughter  leaving  forest  shades  for  flowery  meada. 

Toilsome  now  upon  the  upland,  come  an  old  man  and  a  child, 

All  unheeding  the  rough  pathway,  they  the  weary  way  beguiled 

With  their  converse  sweet  and  cheering,  till  they  'neath  a  beach-tree  stood, 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  where  the  upland  meets  the  wood  ; 

And  then  spake  the  old  man  softly,  while  low  rose  the  blue-bells  chime, 

"  I  would  go  to  yonder  forest,  stay  thou  here  a  little  time," 

Turning  then  the  old  man  entered  deep  into  the  forest  old. 

Trod  unerringly  the  windings,  for  he  knew  the  pleasant  wold  ; 

On  the  sward  the  sunlight  golden,  glancing  through  the  bowered  leaves, 

Cwst  in  dim  fantastic  shadows,  all  the  gnarled  and  hoary  trees, 

Through  the  dan  and  mystic  arches  where  the  tree-tops  bend  to  meet, 

Strive  to  enter  amber  sunbeams — striving  too  to  stay  and  greet 

Little  meek-eyed  violets  hidden  'mid  the  quivering  grasses  shade, 

In  thoae  dim  and  mystic  arches  where  the  sunlight  seldom  strayed. 

Underneath  a  spreading  oak-tree  did  the  old  man  sit  and  dream, 

While  upon  his  soul  rushed  memories,  like  a  swift  and  mighty  stream  ; 

Days  long  past  rose  up  before  him,  and  loved  forms  now  flitted  by, 

And  as  o'er  him  waved  the  green  leaves,  he  remembered  with  a  sigh 

How  he  wandered  'neath  these  branches,  wandered  by  his  Mother's  side, 

While  the  swiftly-flying  hours  hastened  on  to  even-tide  ; 

How  she  for  his  sake  did  study,  conned  the  page  of  classic  lore, 

And  when  wandering  in  the  forest,  told  him  tales  of  distant  yore  ; 

Then  she  told  of  ancient  Minsters,  whose  tall  spires  do  pierce  the  sky, 

Where  beneath  the  fretted  arches,  forms  of  Saints  and  Heroes  lie  : — 

Stern  and  grim  with  unbarred  vizors,  Knights  in  armor  too  are  there 

With  their  hands  devoutly  folded,  as  if  life  had  been  one  prayer 

Quiet  sleep  those  knights  in  armor,  undisturbed  their  ashes  lie. 

While  the  choir  in  joyful  anthems  sound  their  praises  toward  the  sky  j 

And  upon  their  stony  faces,  purple  waves  of  light  fall  down, 


THE    PCI^t's    death.  105 

Flickering  through  the  blazoned  window,  where  each  with  halo-crown, 

Stand  the' twelve,,  who  through  his  life-time  with  the  Holy  Saviour  walked 

And  who  hlessed,  above  all  others,  listened  reverent  while  he  talked. 

Kings  and  emperors  there  are  gathered,  who  in  life  but  acted  parts. 

Wherein  pomp  and  manly  pageants  did  but  cover  aching  hearts  ; 

For  their  life  was  one  of  turmoil,  one  of  trouble  and  of  care, 

And  to  prop  a  falling  kingdom,  those  without  must  see  all  fair; 

There  rest  knights  who  in  past  ages  fought  in  holy  Palestine, 

With  their  names  graved  on  their  tomb-stones, /o?/-7?.^rs  of  a  lordly  line. 

There  lie,  too,  than  kings  more  mighty,  they  who  by  the  power  of  mind. 

Swayed  a  sceptre  o'er  a  kingdom,  by  limit  nor  by  bound  confined. 

Then,  as  full  of  avre  he  listened  of  the  wondrous  boy  she  told, 

Who  ever  loved  to  wander  through  a  Minster  grey  and  old. 

When  the  moonlight  pale  was  streaming  on  the  high  and  groined  roof, 

Piercing  e'en  the  carved  corners,  where  dark  shadow's  held  aloof; 

There  he  read  the  quaint  old  legends,  conned  the  letters  o'er  and  o'er, 

Deeply  graven  on  the  tomb-stones— deeds  of  them  that  live  no  more  ; 

There  he  paced,  the  boyish  poet,  till  the  present  passed  away, 

And  the  Past  was  present  to  him,  where  but  Chivalry  had  sway ; 

Such  a  world  as  Poets  dream  of,  Minstrels  sing  in  ro:mdelay  ; 

Who  knows  not  the  saddened  story,  how  he  died  in  dread  despair. 

How  the  world  whose  bitter  hatred,  broke  his  heart  with  weight  of  care, 

Raised  a  poean  o'er  hira  buried,  and  when  ended  hopes  and  fears 

He  was  mourned  with  bitter  sorrow,  'mid  a  nation's  flowing  tears, 

Then  she  spoke  of  th'  olden  Masters,  at  whose  names  our  pulses  thrill, 

Who  by  the  magic  of  their  art  control  our  feelings  still ; 

Who  by  humble  patient  waiting,  with  a  pious  trusting  heart, 

By  their  love  of  all  that's  truthful,  by  devotion  to  their  art, 

By  their  life  of  care  and  turmoil  carved  them  out  an  honored  name, 

But  died  at  last  unconscious  of  their  ever  growing  Fame. 

Time  passed  on,  the  child  so  earnest  saw  his  gen+le  mother  die, 

And  long  years  of  patient  sorrow  with  their  griefs  had  flitted  by 

On  his  soul  fell  lightning  flashes  of  a  genius  high  and  rare, 

Waving  circlets  Iris-hued,  sparkled  in  the  ambient  air  ; 

All  his  wild  impassioned  feelings  now  breathed  forth  in  fitting  song 

While  in  grand  and  stirring  lyrics  glowed  his  hatred  of  the  wrong 

Aud  the  poet  nobly  trusting  that  all  hearts  were  like  his  own, 

Saw  waving  proudly  round  his  brow,  the  bright-leaved  laurel  crown 

Ah,  alas  !  that  thus  it  should  be,  sadly  did  his  hopes  deceive, 

Cold  neglect  than  scorn  more  bitter,  this  the  pasan  he  received  : 

Broken  down  his  high  aspirings,  crushed  his  longings  after  Fame, 

Gone  the  dreams  that  brightly  whispered  of  a  loved  and  honored  name 

But  when  sad  and  most  desponding,  he  bethought  him  of  those  lays 

Which  his  gentle  mother  taught  him  in  those  loved  and  bye-gone  daya 

He  bethought  him  of  those  Masters,  who  in  Poetry  and  Art, 

Long  did  toil  and  lo7ig  did  struggle,  never,  never  faint  of  heart ;  ^ 

Thus  admonished  strove  he  manful,  shaking  off  his  dark  despair, 

And  with  effort  strong  enduring  all  his  heavy  weight  of  care ; 


10(5  THE    OLD    AND    THE    NEW. 

With  a  heart  then  brave  and  fearless,  entered  he  the  world  of  strife., 

No  more  to  sit  with  folded  hands,  nnd  gloomy  shrink  from  busy  life  ; 

All  !  ho  needed  heart  courag:eous,  ah  !  he  needed  nerves  of  steel, 

For  a  })oet  in  Life's  Babel,  nought  must  care  for,  nothing  feel; 

Still  the  Poet  trustful-hearted,  dreamed  and  hoped  the  day  would  dawo 

When  the  shadows  dark  and  gloomy,  swift  woiild  fly  before  the  mora. 

While  thus  hoping  and  courageous,  grey  old  age  stole  on  apace 

And  at  last  worn  out  with  waiting.  Hope  had  hid  her  radiant  face ; 

As  he  sat  now  'neath  the  oak  tree,  bitter  memories  waken'd  fast, 

And  a  struggle  fierce  was  raging,  as  his  thoughts  roamed  in  thfi  Past. 

Oh  !  his  soul  was  stirred  within  him.  and  rt-bellious  thoughts  would  rise, 

For  he  knew  that  Death  was  near  him,  and  'twas  hard  to  close  his  eyes-- 

While  the  Fame  he  long  had  toiled  for,  now  by  him  could  not  be  gained — 

All  his  strivings  were  unanswered,  his  high  goal  jet  unattained  ; 

Thought  he  then  of  those  who  suffered,  counting  earthly  sorrow  light, 

While  they  did  their  Master's  bidding.  j,'uidedby  his  word  aright; 

They  who  suffered  persecution,  dic-d  at  last  in  perfect  faith, 

Feeling  that  deep  peace  of  heart,  which  takes  away  the  sting  from  Death 

And  such  thoughts  did  calm  his  feelings,  o'er  his  spirit  casta  spell, 

Bowed  him  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  which  "  doeth  all  things  well." 

And  the  old  man  said  with  fervor,  (now  the  victory  was  won,) 

''  Not  my  will,  Oh  !  Heavenly  Father,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done." 

In  the  old  man's  heart  remained  now  nought  but  peacefulness  and  prayci, 

With  an  humble  trust  and  childlike,  he  was  dying  without  care. 

In  the  forest  all  was  peaceful — shivering  aspens  shook  no  more 

While  a  human  soul  was  passing  to  the  far-off  heavenly  shore. 

Down  behind  the  western  mountains  passed  the  sun  with  cloudless  train, 

Purple  vapors  hung  in  miJ-air,  shadows  rested  on  the  plain; 

Twilight  starless  breathed  in  quiet  o'er  the  woodland  far  and  u'^ar. 

But  the  child  beneath  the  beach  tree,  toward  the  forest  looked  with  fear. 

For  the  shadows  dark  and  gloomy  o'er  it  hung  like  dusky  veil, 

And  the  wind  through  branches  sweeping,  passed  away  with  mournful  T\nil, 

And  at  last  he  fled  affrighted,  though  he  knew  not  Death  had  muie 

In  the  forest,  solemn  «ilence — in  the  shadows,  deeper  shade. 


THE   OLD    AND    THE    NEW. 


"Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new ;  the  eternal  flow  of  things, 
Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  Heaven, 
Shall  journey  onwaid  in  perpetual  peace." 


THE    S  LAND  ERE  E'. 


Of  all  the  ills,  and  maladies,  and  distempers,  ^vl^ch  "  flesli  ia 
heir  to,-  few  indeed  are  so  dangerous  and  deadly,  and  none  so 
insidious  as  slander.  The  daHc  insinuation,  the  equivocal  ex- 
pression, the  half-suppressed  sentence,  the  low  \yh\si^er— these, 
with  their  appropriate  accompaniments  of  looks,  wmhs,  and 
nods,  are  the  execrable  weapons  with  which  the  quiet,  smooth- 
tongued slanderer  does  his  work  of  desolation  and  death.  An 
unguarded  expression  often  serves  as  a  foundation  for  the  most 
poisonous  slanders. 

Did  he  attack  you  openly,  you  could  guard  against  the  as- 
saults, and  if  you  should  fall,  fall  fighting  manfully  in  defence 
of  your  honor'and  reputation.  But  no  !  the  blighting  inuendo 
is  passed  from  one  to  another,  until  the  whole  town  is  in  posses- 
sion of  it,  ^vith  all  its  snow-ball-hke  accumulation,  and  all  the 
way  along  the  blasting  secret  has  traveled  under  the  protection 
of  confide^ntial  secresy,  so  that  the  injured,  and  perhaps  ruined 
subject  of  the  slanderer,  is  the  last  to  have  the  doleful  tidings 
sounded  in  his  ears,  and  by  this  time  the  fatal  stigma  has  fas- 
tened upon  him  with  such  weight  of  suspicion,  that  it  may  be 
impossible  in  a  whole  lifetime,  to   cast  off  effectually  the  foul 

assertion. 

The  busy,  meddling  tattler  should  have  the  brand  of  infamy 
burnt  deep  into  his  very  forehead,  and  exposed  to  universal 
scorn ;  but  idle  curiosity  and  itching  ears  give  support  to  the 
hateful  serpent,  and  he  is  enabled  to  live  on  the  vitals  of  virtuous 
society  and  luxuriate  in  the  spoils  of  innocence.  For  the  villain 
i\'ho  seeks  your  life  there  is  a  gallows  prepared,  and  standing  up 
in  terorem ;  for  the  thief  who  robs  you  of  your  property,  a  prison, 
2^  penitentiary,  and  the  just  execration  of  society  ;  but  the  black- 
hearted moral  cannibal  who  secretly  blasts  your  reputation,  the 
fiibric  of  many  years  toil  and  virtue,  a  thousand  times  more  val- 
uable than  property,  and  dearer  than  life  itself,  should  be  for 
ever  discountenanced  by  the  worthy  and  '^  pure  in  heart,"  and 
banished  from  the  circles  of  a  truth-loving  community; 


108  A   HIDEOUS    MONSTER. 

That  vilest  o^  demons  smiles  at  the  desolation  wrought  by  the 
venom  of  his  tongue,  retains  Ids  rank  in  society.  "  Oh,  tell  it 
not  in  Gath,  nor  publish  it  through  the  streets  of  Askelon,"  and 
in  many  instances,  unimpeached  in  his  standing  in  the  Church 
of  Christ  also.  The  murderer  is  a  Christian,  the  foe  a  friend, 
the  robber  a  saint,  compared  with  the  moral  turpitude  of  the 
saintly-seeming  slanderer,  who,  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel,  com- 
bines a  heart  as  black  as  the  smoke  of  perdition. 


A    HIDEOUS    MONSTEE. 


There  exists  in  society,  a  hideous  monster  known  to  all, 
though  no  one  disturbs  it.  Its  ravages  are  great,  almost  incal- 
culable; it  slays  reputations,  poisons,  dishonors,  and  defiles  the 
splendor  of  the  most  estimable  form.  It  has  no  name,  being  a 
mere  figure  of  speech,  a  very  word.  It  is  composed  of  but  one 
phrase,  and  is  called — They  say.  "  Do  you  knov/  such  a  one  ?" 
is  often  asked,  and  the  person  pointed  out. 

"  No  ;  but  they  say  he  has  had  strange  adventures,  and  his 
family  is  very  unhappy." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  know  nothing  about  it.     But  they  say — " 

"This  young  woman,  so  beautiful,  so  briUiant,  so  much 
admired — do  yon  know  her  ?' 

"  No.  They  say  it  is  not  diflficult  to  please  her,  and  that 
more  than  one  has  done  so  ?" 

"  But  she  appears  so  decent,  so  reserved." 

"  Certainly ;  but  they  say — " 

"Do  not  trust  that  gentleman.     Be  on  your  guard—" 

"  Bah  !  his  fortune  is  immense  ;  see  what  an  establishment  ha 

has." 

"  Yes  \    But  they  say  he  is  very  much  involved." 

"  Do  you  know  the  fact  ?" 

"  Not  I.     They  say  though—" 

This  "  they  say,^^  is  heard  in  every  relation  of  life.  It  is 
deadly,  mortal,  and  not  to  be  grasped.  It  goes  hither  and 
thither,  strikes  and  kills  manly  honor,  female  virtue,  without 
either  sex  being  ever  conscious  of  the  injury  done. 


j^^  ^ 


JS>4-     ''\ 


:/?-////-//  -^./a/z/i' 


>. 


THE     WEDDING 


The  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea, 

She  leaps  across  the  tide ; — 
The  flashing  waves  dash  joyously 

Their  spray  upon  her  side : 
As  if  a  bird,  before  the  breeze 

She  spreads  her  snowy  wings, 
And  breaking  through  the  crested  se^g, 

How  beautiful  she  springs. 

The  deep  blue  sky,  above  her  path. 

Is  cloudless,  and  the  air 
The  pure  and  spicy  fragrance  hath, 

Which  Ceylon's  breezes  bear — 
And  though  she  seems  a  shadowless 

And  phantom  thing,  in  sport, 
Her  freight  I  ween  is  Happiness, 

And  Heaven  her  far-oflf  port. 

Mild,  tearful  eyes  are  gazing  now 

Upon  that  fleeting  ship, 
And  here,  perhaps,  an  ashy  brow, 

And  there  a  trembling  lip, 
Are  tokens  of  the  agony — 

The  pangs  it  cost  to  sever 
A  mother  from  her  first-bom  child — 

To  say — Farewell,  forever! 

#  *  «  « 

The  ship  is  gone,  lost  to  the  eye ; 

But  still  a  freshening  l:)reeze 
Is  o'er  her  wake,  and  drives  her  on 

Through  smooth  and  pleasant  seas. 
Right  onward,  thus,  she  will  dash  on, 

Though  tempests  shalie  the  air, 
For  hearts  that  fear  not  ocean's  wrath, 

I  ween  will  aye  be  there. 

*  #  «  * 

That  sea  is  Life — that  Bark  is  but 

The  Hopes  of  wedded  love ; 
The  Wind,  which  fills  its  swelling  sails, 

I  trust,  is  from  above. 
And  ever  may  its  progress  be 

Through  summer  seas  right  on, 
Till  blended  with  Eternity's 

Broad  ocean's  horizon. 


ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  MARRIED  LADY. 


You  are  now  married,  and,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions,  your 
friends  and  acquaintance  wiU  profess  to  wish  you  joy.  Many  will 
do  so  as  an  act  of  common  civility,  feeling  little  or  nothing  of  the 
sentiment  which  the  words  import.  When,  however,  I  express  a 
solicitude  for  your  welfare,  I  think  I  am  entitled  to  the  credit  of 
meaning  something  more  than  the  performance  of  an  empty  cere- 
mony. But  when  congratulating  you,  I  know  of  no  better  way  of 
proving  the  sincerity  of  my  professions,  than  by  tendering  you  my 
advice  as  to  some  of  the  means  I  deem  necessary  to  be  pursued  in 
order  to  render  your  new  situation  a  matter  of  real  felicitation. 

Young  people  are  very  apt  to  think,  if  they  think  at  all  on  the 
subject,  that  when  they  get  married  their  cares  are  all  scattered  to 
the  winds,  and  that  their  happiness  is  secured  for  life.  So  far  fi*om 
the  truth  is  such  a  thought,  that  when  reality  awakens  them  from 
the  dream  of  uninterrupted  bliss,  they  find  their  sorrows  certainly 
doubled,  and  whether  their  joys  are  to  be  increased  or  not  depends 
mostly  on  themselves ;  and  they  will  still  find  causes  enough  to 
interrupt  their  happiness,  though  each  should  do  their  best  to  pre- 
vent or  jsounteract  them.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  the  married  state 
may  be  made  more  happy  than  the  single  life,  or  it  may  become  a 
state  of  perfect  wretchedness ;  and  whether  your  present  situation 
is  to  be  better  than  that  you  exchanged  for  it,  depends  much  or 
mostly  on  yourself.  It  is  therefore  a  matter  the  first  in  order,  as 
well  as  the  first  in  importance  to  you,  that  you  should  endeavor  to 
ascertain  the  means  best  calculated  to  secure  a  continuance  of  that 
happiness  which  doubtless  you  expected  to  experience  in  the  married 
life.     On  this  subject  I  will  endeavor  to  assist  you. 

That  you  were  happy  during  the  period  spent  in  courtship,  you 
will  not  deny.  That  you  were  so,  arose  from  the  consciousness  that 
you  loved  and  were  beloved  in  return :  and  from  the  pleasing  hope 
or  moral  certainty  that  you  would  attain  the  object  of  your  affections. 
This  hope  is  realized,  and  that  you  are  happy  now,  you  need  no  one 
to  tell  you.     If  it  is  the  reciprocated  affections  of  your  husband 


ADVICE    TO    A    YOUNG    MARRIED    LADY.  115 

which  make  you  happy,  it  is  yours  which  make  him  s.o ;  aud  hence 
mutual  affections  constitute  the  source  of  connubial  bliss,  and  it  is 
equally  true  that  the  infelicity  of  the  married  state,  follows  the  loss 
of  those  affections.  On  the  continuance  of  the  affections,  then,  no 
less  than  on  the  choice  of  a  husband,  depends  your  happiness  in  the 
wedded  life.  The  means  to  insure  a  continuance  of  those  affections, 
is  the  subject  next  in  course  for  your  consideration. 

So  numerous  are  the  instances  in  which  married  people  have  lost 
their  affections  for  each  other,  that  the  unreflecting  have  hastily  con- 
cluded, that  it  is  easier  to  acquire  than  retain  them.  If  this  be 
true,  it  goes  to  prove  that  you  should  be  more  assiduous  to  retain 
the  affections  of  your  husband,  than  you  were  to  gain  them.  But 
it  is  not  true  to  the  extent  which  many  believe.  It  is  very  unphi 
losophical  to  argue,  that  like  causes  will  not  produce  like  effects — 
or  that  the  effect  will  cease,  though  the  cause  be  continued.  The 
truth  most  probably  is,  that  when  the  affections  of  married  people 
become  extinct,  it  is  owing  to  their  neglect  to  continue  the  cause  by 
which  those  affections  were  first  elicited.  What  man  in  his  senses,  if 
be  knew  the  disposition  of  the  lady  he  addressed,  would  fall  in  love 
with  a  sour,  sulky,  brawling,  ill-natured  woman  ?  It  is  the  opposite 
qualities  which  he  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees,  in  the  lady  of  his  choice, 
of  which  he  becomes  enamored.  It  is  a  countenance  illumined  with 
smiles,  eyes  beaming  with  intelligence,  a  mouth  flowing  with  sweet- 
ness and  good  nature — in  short,  a  deportment  indicative  of  modesty, 
mildness  and  benignity,  to  which  he  pays  the  homage  of  his  heart. 
If  such  were  the  causes  by  which  were  quickened  the  tenderness  of 
the  lover,  rely  on  it  that  nothing  short  of  those  will  insure  the  affec- 
tions of  the  husband ;  for  when  the  causes  subside,  the  effects  must 
necessarily  cease,  and  then  misery  and  wretchedness  will  become  the 
inmates  of  your  household. 

More  of  the  happiness  of  married  people  is  involved  in  their  con- 
duct during  the  first  year,  than  in  any  succeeding  period  of  their 
connubial  association.  There  are  probably  but  few  instances  where 
persons  newly  married  do  not  discover,  and  that  too,  in  an  early 
period  of  their  matrimonial  relation,  each  in  the  other,  some  trait 
of  character  which  had  before  escaped  their  observation — and  much, 
very  much,  depends  on  the  course  they  may  pursue  on  those  occa- 
sions. Should  the  newly  discovered  faults  or  follies  of  the  husband 
appear  to  be  such  as  preclude  the  hope  of  their  being  corrected, 
however  unpleasant  the  task,  the  wife's  easiest  course  will  be  to 


116  ADVICE    TO    A    YOUXG    MAPwR.  ED    LADY. 

endeavor  to  accommodate  herself  to  tliem.  If  she  cannot  bring 
her  circumstances  to  her  mind,  the  alternative  is  to  bring  her 
mind  to  her  circumstances.  Custom  and  habit  tend  to  lessen  the 
effect  of  evils  which  cannot  be  destroyed ;  and  common  prudence 
will  induce  her  to  conceal  from  her  husband  her  knowledge  of  those 
faults  of  his  which  she  cannot  expect  to  obviate,  because  it  will  not 
increase  his  affection  for  her,  should  he  think  that  hers  for  him  is  on 
the  wane.  If  a  woman  would  correct  the  faults  or  follies  of  her 
husband,  she  should  reflect,  that  she  can  only  do  it  by  means  of  her 
influence  over  him — that  she  has,  in  general,  no  other  influence  than 
what  arises  from  his  affections  for  her — that  the  continuance  of  these 
depends  on  the  continuance  of  the  causes  by  which  they  were  first 
kindled  :  and  you  may  rest  assured,  that  whatever  female  patience, 
mildness  and  good  humor,  and  tender  affections  cannot  accomplish 
with  a  husband,  frowns,  sulks,  sharp  reproofs,  and  ill-natured 
reproaches  never  can  achieve.  By  the  former  he  may  be  soothed 
and  softened  into  complaisance,  and  willingly  led  to  abandon  a  foible 
or  a  fault ;  but  the  latter  will  inevitably  tend  to  sour  his  mind,  to 
curdle  all  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  his  bosom,  warm  his  resent- 
ment, excite  his  opposition,  and  confirm  him  in  error. 

My  acquaintance  with  your  husband,  has  induced  me  to  believe 
that  his  whole  heart  and  soul  accompany  his  affections  and  aversions ; 
and  that  it  depends  much  on  the  exercise  of  your  prudence  and 
discretion,  whether  he  will  be  to  you  a  kind  and  tender  husband,  or 
an  unpleasant  and  uninteresting  associate.  Perhaps  you  are  now 
about  to  ask,  if  the  wife  must  make  all,  and  the  husband  no  sacrifice 
to  promote  connubial  concord  and  domestic  peace  ?  I  mean  no  such 
thing — on  the  contrary,  so  much  depends  on  your  mutual  endeavors, 
that  without  the  husband's,  the  wife's  cannot  succeed.  But  the  path 
I  have  pointed  out  for  you  to  take,  is  the  surest,  nay,  the  only  one, 
to  be  pursued,  to  produce  or  continue  in  him  the  disposition  to  a 
corresponding  course  of  measures.  Can  that  be  called  a  sacrifice 
which  promotes  a  domestic  bliss  ?  As  well  may  he  be  said  to  sacri- 
fice his  money  who  gives  it  for  a  larger  sum. 

You  will  be  disappointed  if  you  expect  your  husband's  face 
always  to  be  the  sporting  place  of  smiles  and  graces,  or  his  mind  at 
all  times  attuned  to  the  soft  melody  of  harmonious  strains ; — 

"  As  well  expect  eternal  sunshine,  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  forever  temperate,  calm  and  wise." 

Sickness,  disappointment,  and  perplexity  in  his  business,  and  a  thoi> 


ADVICE    TO    A    YOUNG    MARRIED    LADY.  117 

sand  nameless  causes,  canuot  but  sometimes  operate  to  disturb  bia 
mind,  depress  his  spirits,  and  becloud  his  visage  :  producing,  perhaps, 
unsual  taciturnity,  or  a  strain  of  language  not  remarkable  for  its 
mellifluent  cadences. 

This  is  not  the  occasion  on  which  he  is  to  bo  met  with  a  corre- 
sponding deportment  on  the  part  of  his  wife.  It  is  rather  the  time 
when  the  exercise  of  all  her  philosophy  is  indispensable,  a  time  when 
her  temper  is  to  be  tried,  her  heart  probed,  and  her  affections  put 
to  the  test ;  the  time  when  by  her  kind,  soft,  and  sympathizing  lan- 
guage, and  a  countenance  and  conduct  bearing  testimony  to  its  sin- 
cerity, that  ho  is  to  be  comforted  at  least  with  the  reflection,  that  he 
has  a  friend  in  adversity  as  well  as  in  prosperity,  a  partner  in  his 
sorrows  as  in  his  joys.  I  may  possibly  be  singular  in  the  opinion, 
but  I  could  never  entertain  the  fullest  confidence  even  in  the  virtue 
of  that  female  whose  sympathies  could  not  be  excited  by  the  sorrows 
of  others ;  and  surely  a  wife  can  never  appear  so  interesting  and 
amiable  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  as  when  he  sees  her  melting 
with  kindness  to  him,  and  sorrowing  for  his  sorrows.  In  short,  it 
should  be  the  object  of  your  unremitted  attention,  to  make  him  feel 
that  his  home  is  a  place  of  refuge  from  his  cares,  a  sanctuary  from 
the  frowns  of  adverse  fortune,  and  he  will  seek  it  as  naturally  as  he 
would  desire  his  own  felicity. 

But  when  a  husband  ceases  to  regard  his  home  as  the  happiest 
place  on  earth,  he  would  shun  it  as  he  would  fly  his  troubles ;  and 
as  it  often  happens,  will  take  the  road  to  ruin,  and  seek  at  the 
ale  house,  the  gaming  table,  or  more  indecent  places,  a  refuge  from 
domestic  broils,  the  consequences  of  which,  though  often  seen,  are 
too  disgusting  for  detail. 

It  could  not  be  deemed  a  compliment  to  your  husband's  taste, 
to  suppose  he  will  be  entirely  indifi"erent  to  your  dress,  or  pleased  to 
see  you  careless  in  this  respect  either  at  home  or  abroad.  Those 
wives  have  not  reflected  much,  who  think  a  slip-shod  slattern  hazards 
nothing  of  her  husband's  good  opinion ;  or  that  the  lack  of  neatness 
in  domestic  dress  is  a  certain  indication  of  her  indolence  and  the 
discorded  aspect  of  her  habitation.  If  your  husband  loves  you,  he 
could  not  but  feel  somewhat  of  disappointment,  should  the  personal 
appearance  of  his  wife  be  much  inferior  to  that  of  the  girl  he  courted, 
or  to  the  generality  of  those  females  with  whom  you  may  happen  to 
associate.  He  cannot  but  make  comparisons,  and  it  should  be  your 
care  that  they  should  not  result  to  your  disadvantage. 


118  ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  MAKK.IED  LADY. 

Extravaganoe  in  dress  should  also  be  avoided  as  ill  calculated 
to  increase  the  respectability  of  a  married  lady,  and  it  sometimes 
occasions  surmises  no  wise  creditable  to  the  female  character.  In- 
deed, you  ought,  by  consulting  your  husband's  wishes  in  this  respect, 
to  leave  him  not  a  doubt,  that  your  dress  is  fashioned  to  meet  his 
approbation,  more  than  to  attract  the  gaze  or  gain  the  admiration 
of  any  or  every  other  person.  It  may  be  thought,  perhaps  by  somc^ 
that  the  dress  of  the  wife  is,  to  the  husband,  a  matter  of  very  trifling 
consequence  ;  but  rely  upon  it,  the  effect  of  disregarding  his  opinions 
on  this  subject,  is  not  always  wholly  unimportant. 

You  have  doubtless  seen  and  heard  enough  to  know,  that  nothing 
short  of  crime,  can  more  impair  the  respectability  of  a  married  lady, 
than  often  being  seen  at  public  places,  unattended  by  her  husband. 
Should  yours  have  no  desire  to  be  thronged  with  company  at  home, 
nor  disposition  to  seek  it  abroad;  or  should  you  unfortunately 
aspire  to  live  in  a  style  inconsistent  with  his  feelings  or  resources, 
I  have  already  said  enough  to  show  you,  that  no  action  of  yours 
savoring  of  opposition,  no  look  soured  by  disappointment,  no  ex- 
pression tinctured  with  reproach,  will  dispose  him  the  more  to  gratify 
your  wishes.  That  such  means  cannot  succeed  with  a  man  of  sense 
and  spirit,  is  as  obvious  as  the  indiscretion  through  which  they  are 
adopted. 

Abrupt  contradiction  of  any  one,  though  sometimes  the  effect  of 
an  unguarded  moment,  is  generally  regarded  as  a  sure  indication  of 
low  and  vulgar  breeding :  but  such  conduct  in  a  wife  towards  a 
husband,  seldom  fails  to  render  him  ridiculous  and  her  contemptible 
in  the  estimation  of  all  who  may  happen  to  witness  such  an  instance 
of  her  folly  aiid  imprudence.  Much  of  the  respectability  of  the 
wife  is  reflected  from  the  husband ;  and  when  she,  by  her  indiscre- 
tion, lessens  his,  she  is  sure  to  sink  her  own  in  public  estimation. 

To  conclude — I  have  voluntarily,  and  perhaps  officiously,  offered 
you  my  counsel,  and  the  best  my  judgment  can  afford.  My  motive 
is  your  good;  but  it  depends  on  yourself  whether  or  not  it  will  be 
useful  to  you.  But  keep  this  letter  by  you^  and  if,  at  the  end  of 
three  or  four  years,  you  shall  tliink  yourself  not  benefited  by  its 
contents,  you  have  my  assent  to  burn  it. 

That  blessings  of  health,  peace,  and  prosperity  may  attend  you 
through  life,  is  the  sincere  wish  and  earnest  hope  of  your  friend. 


Diet  cures  more  than  the  doctor. 


FLOWERS 


In  a  grove  of  tulips,  or  a  knot  of  piuks,  one  perceives  a  difference 
in  almost  every  individual.     Scarce  any  two  are  turned  and  tinctured 
exactly  alike.     Each  allows  himself  a  little  particularity  in  his  dress, 
though  all  belong  to  one  family :  so  that  they  are  various  and  yet 
the  same.     A  pretty  emblem  this,  of  the  smaller  differences  between 
Christians.     There  are  modes  in  religion  which  admit  of  variation, 
without  prejudice  to  sound  faith  or  real  holiness ;  just  as  the  drapery 
on  these  pictures  of  the  spring  may  be  formed  after  a  variety  of 
patterns,  without  blemishing  their  beauty  or  altering  their  nature. 
Be  it  so  then,  that  in   some  points  of  inconsiderable  consequence 
several  of  our  brethren  dissent ;  yet,  as  all  live  amicably  and  sociably 
together,  for  we  harmonize  in  principals,  though  we  vary  in  punc- 
tilios.    Let  us  join  in  conversation,  and  intermingle  interests;  dis- 
cover no  estrangement  of  behavior,  and  cherish  no  alienation  of  affec- 
tion.    If  any  strife  subsists,  let  it  be  to  follow  our  Divine  Master 
most  closely  in  humility  of  heart  and  unblameableness  of  life ;  to 
serve  one  another  most  readily  in  all  the  kind  offices  of  a  cordial 
friendship.     Thus  shall  we  be  united, -though  distinguished;   united 
in  the  same  grand  fundamentals,  though  distinguished  by  some  small 
circumstantials :  united  in  one  important  bond  of  brotherly  love, 
though  distinguished  by  some  slighter  peculiarities  of  sentiment. 

Between  Christians,  whose  judgments  disagree  only  about  a  form 
of  prayer  or  manner  of  worship,  I  apprehend  there  is  no  more  essen- 
tial difference  than  between  flowers  which  bloom  from  the  same  kind 
of  seed,  but  happen  to  be  somewhat  diversified  in  the  mixture  of 
their  colors. 

Another  circumstance  recommending  and  endearing  the  flowery 
creation,  is  their  regular  succession.  They  make  not  their  appear- 
ance all  at  once,  but  in  an  orderly  rotation.  While  a  proper  num- 
ber of  these  obliging  retainers  are  in  waiting,  the  others  abscond ; 
but  hold  themselves  in  a  posture  of  service,  ready  to  take  their 
tnrn,  and  fill  each  his  respective  station  the  instant  it  becomes 
'yacant.  The  snow-drop,  foremost  of  the  lovely  train,  breaks 
her  way  through  the  frozen  soil,  in  order  to  present  her  early 
compliments  to  her  Lord :   dressed  in  the  robe  of  innocency,  she 


120  FLOWERS. 

steps  for  ill,  fearless  of  clanger,  long  before  the  trees  have  ven- 
tured to  unfold  their  leaves,  even  while  the  icicles  are  pendent  on 
our  houses.  Next  peeps  out  the  crocus,  but  cautiously,  and  with 
an  air  of  timidity.  She  hears  the  howling  blasts,  and  skulks  close 
to  her  low  situation ;  afraid,  she  seems  to  make  large  excursions 
from  her  root,  while  so  many  ruffian  winds  are  abroad,  and  scouring 
along  the  jether.  Nor  is  the  violet  last  in  this  shining  embassy  of 
the  year ;  which,  with  all  the  embellishments  that  would  grace  a 
royal  garden,  condescends  to  line  our  hedges,  and  grow  at  the  feet 
of  briars.  Freely,  and  without  any  solicitation,  she  distributes  the 
bounty  of  her  emissive  sweets :  while  herself,  with  an  exemplary 
humility,  retires  from  sight,  seeking  rather  to  administer  pleasure 
than  to  win  admiration.  Emblem,  expressive  emblem,  of  those 
modest  virtues  which  delight  to  bloom  in  obscurity,  which  extend  a 
cheering  influence  to  multitudes  who  are  scarce  acquainted  with  the 
source  of  their  comforts !  Motive,  engaging  motive,  to  that  ever- 
active  beneficence  which  stays  not  for  the  importunity  of  the  dis- 
tressed, but  anticipates  their  suit  and  prevents  them  with  the  bless- 
ings of  its  goodness !  The  poor  polyanthus,  that  lately  adorned 
the  border  with  her  sparkling  beauties,  and,  transplanted  into  our 
windows,  gave  us  a  fresh  entertainment,  is  now  no  more.  I  saw  her 
complexion  fade,  I  perceived  her  breath  decay,  till  at  length  she 
expired,  and  dropt  into  her  grave.  Scarce  have  we  sustained  this 
loss,  but  in  comes  the  auricula,  and  more  than  retrieves  it.  Arrayed 
she  comes,  in  a  splendid  variety  of  amiable  forms ;  with  an  eye  of 
crystal,  and  garments  of  the  most  glossy  satin ;  exhaling  perfume, 
and  powdered  with  silver.  A  very  distinguished  procession  this ! 
The  favorite  care  of  the  florist !  Scarce  one  among  them  but  is  dig- 
nified with  a  character  of  renown,  or  has  the  honor  to  represent 
some  celebrated  toast.  But  these,  also,  notwithstanding  their  illus- 
trious titles,  have  exhausted  their  whole  stock  of  fragrance,  and 
are  mingled  with  the  meanest  dust.  Who  could  forbear  grieving  at 
their  departure,  did  not  the  tulips  begin  to  raise  themselves  on  their 
fine  wands  or  stately  stalks  ?  They  flush  the  parterre  with  one  of 
the  gayest  dresses  that  blooming  nature  wears.  Did  ever  beau  or 
belle  make  so  gaudy  an  appearance  in  a  birth-night  suit  ?  Here  one 
may  behold  the  innocent  wantonness  of  beauty.  Here  she  indulges 
in  a  thousand  freaks,  and  sports  herself  in  the  most  charming  diver- 
sity of  colors.  Yet  I  should  wrong  her,  were  I  to  call  her  a 
coquette,  because  she  plays  her  lovely  changes,  not  to  enkindle  dis- 
solute affections   but  to  display  her  Creator's  glory. 


SPRING. 


"  A.GAIN  upon  the  grateful  earth, 
Thou  mother  of  the  flowers." 

'Rejoice,  oil,  man,  rejoice!     Welcome,  season  of  smiles — hail. 
Spring  robed  in  verdure — a  mortal  bids  you  hail ! 

Come  forth,  child  of  sorrow,  and  behold  the  handiwork  of  your 
Maker.  Is  not  the  finger  of  Grod  manifest  in  the  flowers  just  opened 
to  heaven,  in  the  tender  blade  of  grass,  in  the  putting  forth  of  the 
lofty  forest  tree  ?  Has  he  not  given  you  these  things  to  bless  you, 
and  yet  your  heart  leaps  not  at  the  sight.  Open  your  eyes  and  con- 
template the  glorious  prospect :  look  up  and  be  filled  with  gratitude. 
But  forget  not  a  richer  inheritance  is  prepared  for  those  who  love 
Him.  Enjoy  the  spring,  enjoy  the  summer,  and  exult,  if  the  heart 
will,  in  time  of  harvest.  But  let  not  the  joyous  seasons  pass 
unprofitably  by.  The  works  of  Providence  are  as  an  open  book, 
where  you  may  read  and  get  wisdom.  The  beautiful,  the  strong, 
decay.  The  oak  outlives  the  mistletoe,  the  honeysuckle  the  morning- 
glory,  but  they  all  contain  the  elements,  the  seeds  of  death.  They 
are  like  us,  for  a  season,  and  their  years  will  have  an  end.  Never- 
theless, rejoice  and  give  thanks,  oh,  man,  for  the  spring  is  also  a 
token  that  for  thee  there  is  no  end.  As  the  earth  is  now  seen  in  its 
glory  after  a  season  of  storm  and  cloud,  so  mayest  thou  be  seen  ir 
the  brightness  of  the  Redeemer's  glory,  when  the  storm  and  clouc 
of  this  world  shall  have  passed  away. 

Mourner,  come  forth !  the  dew  of  the  morning  is  precious  balm. 
Be  not  overcome  with  grief,  for  God  is  with  you,  and  the  morrow 
may  bring  healing  on  its  wings.  Are  not  the  paternal  skies  beautiful 
and  full  of  glory  ?  Behold  yon  cloud  of  gold  and  purple,  rolling  on 
in  grandeur,  as  if  to  welcome  the  rising  Sun,  which  has  decked  it  so 
magnificently.  And  farther  south,  there  is  one  like  unto  a  rainbow 
in  beauty,  when  first  it  bends  over  us  on  the  ruins  of  the  storm. 
The  fields  too,  how  surpassingly  lovely,  teeming  with  the  riches  ol 
Providence.     Beautiful  world  !     But  for  the  bad  passion.s  of  men. 


122  SPRING. 

even  here  angels  might  stoop  to  dwell,  and  fold  in  peace  their  snowy 


wnigs. 


Hear  the  voice,  thou  sluggard,  and  awake.  Know  you  not  you 
are  wasting  the  precious  hour  of  a  fleeting  life,  more  precious  because 
of  its  limited  duration  ?  There  is  music  on  the  breeze,  and  jo}^  in 
the  bracing  air.  Not  long  since  you  complained  of  the  slow  approach 
of  Spring,  and  now  that  Spring  has  come,  unscathed  by  time,  bright 
and  lovely  as  the  dawn  ef  creation,  you  close  your  eyes  to  its  beau- 
ties, and  your  ears  to  its  gushing  melody.  The  beasts  of  the  field, 
the  feathered  tribes  are  praising  their  maker  and  Grod — they  are 
speaking  a  language  your  heart  does  not  respond  unto.  Shame  on 
you,  ye  sons  of  ease  and  opulence,  "  there  will  be  sleeping  enough 
in  the  grave." 

Little  children,  rejoice,  sing,  and  give  thanks  to  your  Heavenly 
Father,  who  causeth  the  sun  to  shine  on  all  his  creatures.  Fling 
back  your  gay  ringlets,  and  woo  the  light  breeze  of  Spring,  as  it 
passes  on  to  its  bourne.  Nature  has  a  thousand  sweets  for  you, 
wdiich  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee  know  not  of.  When  you  pluck 
the  pretty  flowers,  and  put  them  in  your  bosom,  you  say,  "  God 
made  them."  So,  indeed,  He  did.  And  to  the  innocent  heart,  a 
sense  of  the  goodness  and  love  of  Grod  is  sweeter  far  than  honey  to 
the  little  insect  which  buries  itself  in  the  lovely  blossoms  you  cherish 
so  fondly.  -  Now  learn  a  lesson.  These  pretty  fragrant  flowers,  so 
lately  called  into  being,  will  soon  die,  and  be  hidden  in  the  dust,  and 
you  will  miss  them  in  your  walks,  and  enquire,  "where  are  they?" 
Even  so,  little  children,  you  must  die,  "  and  life  be  left  to  the  but- 
terfly." Then  those  who  loved  you  will  mourn,  and  refuse  to  bo 
comforted;  but  God,  dear  children.  He  will  raise  you  up  at  the  last 
day,  whose  names  are  written  in  the  Lamb's  book  of  life. 

Hail,  Spring !  redolent  with  blessings — emblem  of  a  purer  and 
brighter  world — type  of  Paradise !  Welcome  to  the  lonely  heart 
and  the  "  mind  diseased."  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they 
shall  be  comforted." 


♦■  •  '^  »  » 


Fine  sense  and  exalted  sense  are  not  half  so  useful  as  common 
sense.  There  are  forty  men  of  wit  for  one  man  of  sense,  and  he 
that  will  carry  nothing  about  him  but  gold,  will  be  every  day  at  a 
loss  for  readier  change. 


THE    DEEAM. 


BY    ANNIE    DANE. 


«  Could  we  by  some  spell  of  magic  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
■\VTiat  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  ca«t 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  1"' 

As  twilight  flung  o'er  earth  her  misty  veil, 

And  faintly  beamed  the  moon  serene  and  pale, 

'Neath  the  bright  stars  that  shed  their  fitful  gleams. 

I  laid  me  down  alone  to  pleasant  dreams ; 

To  pleasant  dreams  !     Alas  !  what  potent  spell 

Came  o'er  my  soul  1     What  spirit  rung  the  knell 

Of  joyous  hopes  that  deep  within  the  heart, 

Bright  with  youth's  smiles  forever  quickly  start '? 

Could  moments  waken  thoughts  so  darkly  wild, 

Or  chill  the  life-blood  flowing  clear  and  mild'? 

But  sleep  hath  its  own  world,  and  who  may  know 

Its  fearful  visions  or  its  deepest  woe  1 

Methought  I  came  from  some  bright  sphere,  to  Earth, 

Still  beautiful  and  fair  as  at  its  birth. 

But  the  life  pulses  that  throughout  it  thrill. 

Had  ceased  to  play,  and  all  was  strangely  still; 

Like  Parian  stone  wrought  by  the  sculptor's  care, 

But  cheerless,  motionless,  and  coldly  fair. 

'Mid  the  thick  shade  of  young,  green  summer  leaves, 

There  stirred  no  wind-harp,  and  there  swept  no  breeze 

The  gushing  fountains  and  the  silver  streams 

Had  ceased'to  play  beneath  the  sun's  pure  beams; 

Hushed  was  the  tumult  of  each  ocean  wave, 

And  closed  forever  its  dark  fearful  grtive ; 

Billows  that  raise  their  war-song  loud  and  high, 

No  longer  raved  beneath  a  frowning  sky ; 

Their  r°ocky  tops  glared  white  beneath  the  ray 

The  sun  cast  on  them  through  each  cloudless  day, 

While  night-black  chasms,  powerless  and  deep, 

Lay  chained  benea-th  them  in  eternal  sleep. 

And  man  escaped  not  from  the  feartul  doom 
That  wrapt  the  world  in  an  unbroken  gloom; 


*24  CHE    DREAM. 

Amid  the  gathered  thronfr  no  sound  was  heard, 
Nor  parting  lips  breatlied  forth  the  welcome  word ; 
There  beamed  no  smile,  there  rose  no  bitter  sigh, 
And  soulless  was  the  gaze  of  every  eye. 
But  yet  each  spirit  fled  had  left  a  trace 
Where  oft  its  sudden  gleams  had  lit  the  face, 
As,  fanned  by  hope,  or  fed  by  wild  despair, 
Its  struggling  light  burst  forth  in  glory  there ; 
And  though  most  strange,  'twas  easy  to  define, 
What  passion  fires  had  kindled  on  its  shrine. 

In  each  gay  city  hushed  was  all  the  din, 
The  war,  the  restlessness,  the  woe  and  sin, 
That  weighing  heavy  on  the  harp  of  life, 
Breaks  its  fi-ail  strings,  unequal  to  the  strife ; 
Or  make  strange  discord,  v.iiere,  high-toned,  shoak 
The  heart's  sweet  music,  incense  to  the  skies. 
The  silent  street,  thronged  with  its  motley  crowd, 
Was  a  strange  spectacle,  for  there  the  proud, 
Who  erst  turned  coldly,  with  disdainful  ej^es, 
From  the  wan  beggar  and  his  faltering  cries, 
Had,  by  the  God  who  looked  on  them  with  scorn, 
Been  made  as  friendless,  helpless  and  forlorn. 
Those  with  the  fearless  soul,  the  daring  might, 
Those  with  foul  hearts,  black  as  a  starless  night; 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  coward  and  the  brave. 
Together  stood,  the  earth  one  mighty  grave. 

On  the  wide  festive  hall  I  gazed  awhile. 
To  mark  the  graceful  form  and  winning  smile ; 
But  where  the  song,  the  full,  rich  tide  of  song 
Is  wont  to  floAV  'mid  such  a  joyous  throng, 
And  where  the  voices,  lisping  thoughts  of  glee, 
From  hearts  that  gush  with  untaught  melody  1 
No  such  were  hastening  on  that  banquet  hour ; 
O'er  it  was  reigning  the  same  mystic  power. 
On  many  a  brow,  as  some  fresh  snow-wreath  fair, 
The  frail  Avhite  garlands  rested  gently  there; 
'Mid  the  rich  wealth  of  eastern  braids  still  lay 
The  sleeping  pearls,  in  pure  and  bright  array; 
While  through  dark  tresses  flashed  the  diamond's  lig' 
Proud  that  they  decked  the  beautiful  and  bright: 
But  fearful  silence  hold  unbroken  sway 
In  that  fair  group,  where  smiles  were  once  so  gay, 
The  unquatfed  goblet  clasped  with  jewelled  hand, 
Pressed  many  a  lip  amid  that  gathered  band ; 
And  many  a  form  with  queenly  air  and  glance, 
Had  paused  while  mingling  in  the  merry  dance ; 


THE    DREAM.  ^'*^ 

Alas !  the  dreams  of  youth's  glad  hour  were  o'er, 
And  e'en  Hope's  angels  that  throughout  it  pcur 
Fresh  incense  on  the  heart  to  feed  its  flame, 
Had  sped  away,  forgot  in  very  name. 

Hid  'neath  its  mantle  of  thick  ivy  green, 

In  a  lone  cottage  that  could  scarce  bo  seen, 

On  a  low  couch  I  saw  a  mother  lie, 

Whose  soul  had  fled  before  the  blast  swept  by ; 

Calmly  and  gently  it  had  passed  away, 

As  sunbeams  melt  at  close  of  summer  day ; 

The  placid  brow  was  beautiful  in  rest, 

The  snow-white  linen  lay  upon  her  breast, 

But  there  was  kneeling  by  that  bed  of  death 

One  who  had  bowed  'neath  sorrow's  fearful  breath, 

Stirred  with  its  agony  intense,  her  soul 

Had  heaved  like  waters  when  the  tempests  roll ; 

And  wildly  thrilled  each  quivering  spirit  chord, 

Swept  by  the  angel's  snowy  wing,  that  soared 

To  bear  Heaven's  richest,  holiest  gift  away, 

A  mother's  love,  back  to  its  own  spring-day. 

Upon  her  pale  and  hueless  cheek  there  lay, 

The  woe- wrung  tears,  like  drops  of  ocean  spray, 

Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped  in  strong  despair, 

Her  eyes  upraised,  as  if  on  wing  of  prayer 

The  soul  had  sped.     Blest  seemed  the  God  of  love, 

So  soon  to  call  her  trembling  soul  above ; 

Who  can  endure  to  live,  endure  to  die. 

Without  a  mother's  smile,  and  love-lit  eye  1 

I  looked  into  the  miser's  lonely  lair ; 
The  yellow  heaps  were  still  secreted  there ; 
His  icy  hand,  shrivelled,  and  thin,  and  old, 
Still  clasped  unconsciously  the  shining  gold; 
And  his  wan  face  wore  a  strange  look  of  woe, 
As  he  had  turned  far  from  the  dreaded  foe, 
The  face  of  man  and  the  pure  light  of  day. 
Friendless  and  drearily  to  pass  away. 

I  saw  pale  students,  whom  the  long  still  night 

Ever  found  gazing,  by  the  taper's  light. 

O'er  some  worn  page.     One  was  a  boy  in  years ; 

Thought  brought  him  manhood,  not  life's  doubts  and  fears. 

His  marble  brow,  untouched  by  care,  was  graced 

With  the  deep  lines  that  early  thought  had  traced ; 

The  thickly  mingling  waves  of  dark  brown  hair, 

Carelessly  beautiful,  were  resting  there ; 


126  THE    DREAM. 

And  all  too  bright  seemed  his  clear,  serious  eye, 

Though  death  had  borne  its  glory  to  the  sky. 

Ko  sordid  wish  for  earthly  fame,  I  knew, 

Had  led  him  thus  to  search  life's  secrets  through. 

To  fathom  many  a  mystery  of  the  soul, 

With  thoughts  that  rushed  as  racers  to  their  goal ; 

But  the  wild  longing,  the  strange  thirst  within, 

For  something  more  than  we  on  earth  can  win ; 

Longings  that  may  not  cease,  till,  at  God's  shrine. 

Heaven's  truths  unfold  with  clearness  all  divine. 

Others  had  kept  the  lingering  night  watch,  too, 
Till  in  the  east  the  early  dawn  looked  through ; 
An  old  man  sat  half-raised  upon  his  bed ; 
On  the  low  casement  lay  his  snowy  head ; 
For  he  had  died,  searching,  though  all  in  vain, 
Some  knowledge  of  the  unknown  worlds  to  gain; 
To  pierce  their  beauty  as  with  dewy  light, 
They  mock  the  soul  through  all  the  holy  night; 
The  weary,  fainting  souls  that  seek  release. 
Breathe  but  one  prayer,  ask  but  a  home  of  peace. 

Each  wildly  beating  heart  stern  death  had  hushed 

With  icy  finger,  and  Earth's  spirits  rushed. 

White-robed,  unto  their  God — and  all  was  still, 

As  if  awaiting  His  Almighty  Avill. 

Then  the  loud  voice  that  said,  "  let  there  be  light," 

Reversed  its  mandate,  and  eternal  night 

Spread  its  black  wing  before  my  trembling  sight. 


»  «  ♦  »  ♦ 


POWER    OF    CONSISTENCY 


Mr.  Innes,  in  his  work  on  Domestic  Religion,  mentions  a  fact 
strikingly  illustrative  of  the  power  of  consistent  conduct.  A  young 
man,  when  about  to  be  ordained  as  a  Christian  minister,  stated  that 
at  one  period  of  his  life  he  had  been  nearly  betrayed  into  the  prin- 
ciples of  infidelity;  "But,"  he  added,  'Hhere  was  one  argument  in 
favor  of  Christianity,  which  I  could  never  refute — the  consistent 
conduct  of  my  own  father  !" 


THE    PAINTER    AND    THE    MADONNA. 


BY    W.    S.     SOUTHGATE. 


Long  and  wearily  had  the  painter  hibored  npon  a  Madonna,  but 
yet  another  day  left  it  unfinished.  The  first  ray  of  the  morning  sun 
Vd  found  him  sitting  with  folded  hands  before  the  half-finished  pic- 
tuie,  nor  had  he  gone  from  it  when  the  last  ray  of  the  setting  sun 
came  in  at  the  opposite  window. 

Thus,  day  after  day,  he  had  sought  in  vain  after  that  divine  ex- 
pression of  the  Virgin  Mother,  which  his  soul  "had  often  seen  in  his 
dreams,  but  could  not  now  recall.  Sometimes,  when  his  soul  forgot 
its  earthly  dwelling  place,  and  all  its  sorrows  went  joyously  back  to 
revel  among  the  joys  of  its  own  home,  it  would  bring  to  the  painter 
on  its  return,  as  it  were,  pictures  of  heavenly  loveliness,  which  he 

too  easily  forgets. 

The  birds  sung  sweetly  in  the  gr  --e  near  by,  and  gladdened  the 
painter's  hea/t  with  their  cheerfulness,  for  the  song  of  a  happy  bird 
was  one  of  the  greatest  joys  of  his  life. 

The  summer  air  came  in  at  the  open  window,  laden  with  the  per- 
fume of  the  wild  flowers,  and  with  the  musical  hum  of  the  bees ; 
the  happy  kids  frisked  by  the  side  of  their  feeding  dams  afar  off  on 
the  mountain  slope,  seeming  to  play  close  against  the  clear  blue  sky. 
Every  thing  looked  pleasant  in  the  clear  bright  sunshine,  and  every 
thing  that  felt  it  seemed  to  rejoice  in  it.  The  painter's  courage 
revived.     He  could  not  yet  despair,  for  all  these  glories  of  nature 

gave  him  new  hope. 

Once  more  he  took  his  pencil,  and  labored  on  with  a  light  heart. 
Once  again  the  Madonna  was  finished.  He  gazed  upon  it  long  and 
earnestly,  but  yet  was  not  satisfied. 

'-  Alas  !"  he  cried,  "  it  is  not  the  Virgin  Mother  that  I  have  painted; 
'tis  only  a  smiling  goddess  of  summer,  toying  with  a  child."  And 
again  he  wiped  away  his  work,  almost  despairing  in  his  heart. 

Not  long  after,  the  painter  sat  at  his  window,  watching  the  sha- 
dows, as  they  played  to  and  fro  over  the  bosom  of  the  neighboring 


128  THE    fAlNTER    AND    TIIE    MADONNA., 

lake,  and  listening  to  the  joyful  melody  witli  wliich  the  whole  forest 
rang. 

He  dreamed  that  while  he  was  lying  in  the  shade  of  the  wood, 
looking  upon  the  beautiful  flowers  around  hhn,  a  female  form  rose 
up  from  out  the  bosom  of  a  tulip,  and  stood  before  him. 

At  first  she  seemed  shrouded  with  a  thick  mist,  but  it  cleared 
away  before  the  painter's  gaze,  and  revealed  to  him  the  bright  vision. 
And  never  before,  in  all  his  dreams  of  beauty,  had  he  beheld  so 
lovely  an  embodiment  of  graces  and  beauties.  Her  flowing  robe 
glistened  with  its  own  whiteness  as  she  walked  in  the  light.  The 
Blender  violets  were  hardly  bent  under  her  feet,  and  every  thing  she 
passed  was  covered  in  beauty.  In  every  flower  he  beheld  a  reflected 
image  of  the  lovely  vision,  as  if  each  one  carried  a  mirror  in  its 
own  bosom. 

She  came  near  to  the  astonished  painter,  and  said,  in  a  cheerful 
tone : — 

''  Behold  me  whom  thou  hast  long  sought  in  vain.  I  am  the 
Spirit  of  Beauty.  I  was  born  in  heaven,  but  I  have  long  dwelt  on 
earth,  that  I  might  cheer  the  hearts  of  men.  But  they  do  not  look 
for  me  here,  though  I  am  always  near  them.  They  search  the  skies, 
thinkinof  that  I  never  come  down  from  heaven.  But  thou  at  last 
has  sought  me  aright,  and  so  have  found  me  in  my  grove,  not  away 
in  heaven.  Sol  am  every  where ;  in  the  forest  and  the  field ;  on 
the  mountain  and  in  the  lake ;  in  every  lofty  tree,  in  every  humble 
flower.  Here  I  gladly  abide,  wishing  for  man  to  see  and  love  me, 
that  I  may  dwell  in  his  heart  and  bless  him.  Yet  he  passes  along 
in  the  path  of  life,  so  dreary  without  me,  not  thinking  that  I  am  in 
the  flowers  under  his  feet,  as  well  as  in  the  stars  above  his  head. 
Did  he  mind  more  the  flowers  which  lie  in  his  path,  he  would  mind 
less  the  thorns  there.  Now  I  am  thy  companion,  and  I  will  work 
with  thee  till  men  see  me  in  thy  works." 

The  spirit  ceased,  and  the  painter  awoke.     The  moon  was  shining 
in  his  face,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  had  flown  up  to  it,  and. 
was  looking  down  upon  him. 

"0  glorious  vision,"  he  cried,  ''thou  art  in  heaven,  on  earth, 
and  in  my  soul;  leave  me  not,  I  pray,  though  thou  shouldst  leave 
heaven  and  earth." 

Thenceforth  the  painter  lived  as  it  were  in  a  new  world.  He  saw 
new  beauties,  and  each  added  to  the  joys  of  his  life. 

Again  the  Madonna  was  finished.     And  now  the  canvass  glowed 


THE    PAINTER    AND    THE    MADONNA.  129 

witli  a  life  and  beauty,  more  noble  and  affecting  than  tlie  summer- 
like freshness  and  youth  of  the  last  Madonna,  but  yet  not  divine. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  painted  a  grace  as  a  mother.  There  was 
in  her  face  that  expression  of  joy  and  contentment,  where  lurks 
some  anxiety,  which  you  have  seen  upon  a  mother  when  holding  in 
her  arms  the  sleeping  babe.  And  in  the  child,  you  might  read  his 
gentleness  and  meekness,  but  you  could  not  see  there  his  divinity. 
It  was  a  perfect  picture  of  motherly  love  and  childish  affection,  but 
all  in  it  was  human.  The  painter  felt  that  there  was  something 
wanting  in  it,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  the  I10I3"  expression  which  he 
had  so  long  and  earnestly  sought.  And  still  unsatisfied,  he  laid 
away  the  picture,  hardly  expecting  that  he  should  ever  better  it. 

One  summer  evening,  when  the  fields  and  the  groves  were  all  so 
quiet  in  the  moonlight,  that  it  seemed  like  Nature's  hour  of  prayer, 
the  bell  of  the  church,  which  stood  alone  in  the  valley,  began  to  call 
the  villagers  to  vespers.  And  when  the  painter  heard  it,  and  saw 
how  happy  they  all  seemed  who  were  hastening  to  the  church,  he 
went  and  joined  with  them.  As  he  sat  in  the  dimly-lighted  church, 
and  looked  up  amongst  the  dark  overhanging  beams  of  the  roof, 
feelings  of  awe  came  over  him.  And  all  the  while  the  priest  and 
the  people  were  praying,  the  painter  was  lost  in  holy  meditation. 

Soon  the  organist  began  the  noble  symphonies  of  the  "  Stabat 
Mater,"  filling  the  church  with  its  sweet  music.  And  after  the 
organ  had  ceased,  the  echoes  played  it  over  and  over  again  up  among 
the  lofty  arches,  till  the  painter's  heart  was  filled  with  love  and 
peace.  He  went  home  from  church  to  his  lonely  room,  and  taking 
the  long-n^eglected  Madonna  from  the  corner,  once  more  put  it  upon 
his  easel.     While  he  sat  before  it  he  fell  asleep. 

And  again  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  appeared  to  him,  and  there  was 
with  her  another  noble  spirit,  whose  face  shone  so  with  the  brightness 
of  her  divinity,  that  he  could  not  bear  the  sight.  But  soon  it  beau- 
tified on  him  with  a  gentler  sight,  and  changed  his  fear  to  love. 
The  two  spirits  stood  before  him,  holding  each  other  by  the  hand. 
And  the  face  of  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  was  turned  toward  heaven,  but 
the  other  spirit  looked  upon  the  earth.  Then  the  Spirit  of  Beauty 
said : 

"  Man,  I  have  been  with  thy  heart  ever  since  I  first  met  with 
thee  in  the  grove.  Thou  hast  done  all  that  we  can  do.  Thy  works 
are  beautiful — I  cannot  make  them  more.  But  listen  to  my  sister 
spirit,  for  she  would  make  you  her  own."     Then  the  other  said : 


l30  THE    PAINTER    AND    THE    MADONNA. 

"  I  am  the  Spirit  of  Religion.  I  would  dwell  with  thee  and  be 
thy  companion.  Thou  hast  never  found  me  in  the  grove,  nor  canst 
thou  find  me  there.  Only  my  foot-prints  are  in  the  woodland  and 
on  the  lake.     If  thou  wilt  open  thy  heart  to  me,  I  will  bless  thee.'* 

Then  the  Spirit  of  Religion  raised  her  finger  toward  heaven, 
saying— 

"  I  will  lead  thee  there,  wilt  thou  go  ?" 

And  the  painter  gladly  received  the  other  spirit,  for  her  loveliness 
had  drawn  him  towards  her. 

He  awoke.     The  sister  spirits  dwelt  together  in  his  heart. 

And  now  the  twin  spirits  which  were  dwelling  in  his  dreams,  came 
and  dwelt  with  him  in  reality.  And  when  again  the  pious  painter 
heard  the  mournful  "Stabat  Mater,"  echoing  through  the  lofty 
church,  his  whole  heart  was  filled  with  its  music,  for  now  he  felt 
more  than  its  beauty — he  felt  its  religion. 

Long  ago,  this  happy  painter  died,  but  his  immortal  works 
are  with  us  yet,  ministers  of  purity  and  holiness,  teaching  us  beau- 
tiful lessons.  Chief  among  them  all  is  Madonna,  the  noblest  glory 
of  his  country,  and  joy  to  the  world.  The  mild  countenance  of 
the  Virgin  Mother  is  truly  wonderful ;  words  can  never  half  describe 
it.  There  repose  both  humanity  and  divinity,  joy  and  anxiety,  and 
over  all  it  spreads  with  the  blissful  expression  of  a  young  mother's 
love.  And  the  holy  child,  half  down  from  his  mother's  knee,  looks 
earnestly  into  her  face,  as  if  he  were  saying,  "  Mother,  I  would  be 
saving  unhappy  men,  can  I  not  go  ?" 

This  is  what  the  twin  sisters,  Beauty  and  Religion,  did  for  the 
painter. 

If  we  listen,  with  our  whole  hearts,  to  the  silent  preachings  of 
Nature  and  Art,  they  may  teach  us  where  we  also  may  find  the 
heavenly  companions. 


»  >  ♦  < 


A  MAN,  whose  life  was  immoral,  urged  his  sister  to  go  with  him 
to  hear  his  minister,  but  she  smartly  replied,  "  Brother,  what  are 
you  the  better  for  his  preaching  ?" 

This  fact  shows  how  fruitless  are  the  attempts  of  inconsistent 
professors  in  doing  good,  but  it  furnishes  no  reason  why  any  should 
aeglect  religion. 


MY    WIFE    IS    THE    CAUSE    OF    IT. 


It  is  now  more  than  forty  years  ago,  that  Mr.  L called  at  the 

house  of  Dr.  B ,  one  very  cold  morning,  on  his  way  to  H . 

''Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  ''the  weather  is  very  frosty — will  you 
not  'take  something  to  drink,'  before  you  start  ?" 

In  that  early  day,  ardent  spirits  were  deemed  indispensable  to 
warmth  in  winter.  When  commencing  a  journey,  and  at  every 
stopping  place  along  the  road,  the  traveler  always  used  intoxicating 
drinks  to  keep  him  warm. 

"]So,"  said  Mr.  L ,   '-I  never  touch  anything  of  that'  kind; 

and  I  will  tell  you  the  reason  :  my  icife  is  the  cause  of  it.  I  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  some  of  our  neighbors  every  evening, 
for  the  purpose  of  playing  cards.  We  assembled  at  each  other'? 
shop,  and  liquors  were  introduced.  After  a  while  we  met  not  s( 
much  for  playing  as  drinking,  and  I  used  to  return  home  late  in  th( 
evening,  more  or  less  intoxicated.  My  wife  always  met  me  at  th( 
door  affectionately,  and  when  I  chided  her  for  sitting  up  so  late  foi 
me,  she  kindly  replied,  '  I  prefer  doing  so,  for  I  cannot  sleep  when 
you  are  out.' 

"  This  always  troubled  me.  I  wished  in  my  heart  that  she  would 
only  begin  to  scold  me,  for  then  I  could  have  retorted,  and  relieved 
my  conscience.  But  she  always  met  me  with  the  same  gentle  and 
loving  spirit. 

"Things  passed  on  thus  for  months,  when  I  at  last  resolved  that 
I  would,  by  remaining  very  late,  and  returning  much  intoxicated, 
provoke  her  displeasure  so  much  as  to  cause  her  to  lecture  me,  when 
I  meant  to  answer  her  with  severity,  and  thus,  by  creating  another 
issue  between  us,  unburthen  my  bosom  of  its  present  trouble. 

"  I  returned  in  such  a  plight  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
She  met  me  at  the  door  with  her  usual  tenderness,  and  said,  '  Come 
in,  husband;  I  have  just  been  making  a  warm  fire  for  you,  because 
I  knew  you  would  be  cold.  Take  off  your  boots  and  warm  your 
feet,  and  here  is  a  cup  of  hot  coffee.' 

"Doctor,  that  was  too  much.     I  could  not  endure  it  any  longer, 


132  MAKE    ONE    IIArPY    HEART. 

and  I  resolved,  that  moment,  that  I  would  never  touch  another  drop 
■while  I  lived,  and  I  never  will." 

He  never  did.  lie  lived  and  died  practising  total  abstinence 
from  all  intoxicating  drinks,  in  a  village  where  intemperance  has 
ravaged  as  much  as  any  other  in  this  State. 

That  man  was  my  father,  and  that  woman  my  mother.  The  fact 
above  related  I  received  from  the  Doctor  himself  when  on  a  visit  to 
my  native  village,  not  long  since. 

May  we  not  safel}^  assert,  that,  were  there  more  wives  like  my 
blessed  mother,  there  would  be  fewer  confirmed  drunkards  ? 


»  e    »   »  ♦ 


MAKE    ONE    HAPPY    HEART. 


Have  you  made  one  happy  heart  to-day  ?  How  calmly  can  you 
seek  your  pillow  ?  how  sweetly  sleep.  In  all  this  world,  there  is 
nothing  so  sweet  as  giving  comfort  to  the  distressed — as  getting  a 
sun  ray  into  a  gloomy  heart.  Children  of  sorrow  meet  us  wherever 
we  turn.  There  is  no  moment  that  tears  are  not  shed  and  sighs 
uttered. 

Yet  how  man}'  of  those  sighs,  those  tears,  are  caused  by  our  own 
thoughtlessness  ?  How  man}^  a  daughter  wrings  the  soul  of  a  fond 
mother  by  acts  of  unkindness  and  ingratitude  ?  How  many  hus- 
bands, by  one  little  word,  make  a  whole  day  of  sad  hours  and 
unkind  thoughts  ?  How  many  wives,  by  angry  accriminations, 
estrange  and  embitter  loving  hearts  ?  How  many  brothers  and 
sisters  meet  but  to  vex  each  other,  making  wounds  that  no  human 
heart  can  ever  heal  ? 

And  if  each  one  worked  upon  this  maxim  day  by  day — striving 
to  make  some  happy  heart — jealousy,  revenge,  madness,  hate,  with 
their  kindred  evil  associates,  would  forever  leave  the  earth.  Our 
minds  would  be  so  occupied  in  the  contemplation  of  adding  to  the 
pleasure  of  others,  that  there  would  be  no  room  for  the  ugly  fiends 
of  discord.  Try  it,  disconnected  devotees  of  sorrow  self-caused; 
it  makes  that  little  world  in  which  you  move  an  Eden. 


UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    PETTIBONE. 


"  Open  your  cars :  for  wliicli  of  you  will  stop 
The  vent  of  hearing,  when  loud  Rumor  speaks  V — Skakspeare. 

In  one  of  those  pleasant  rural  villages  wliicli  chequer  the  coast 
of  Long  Island  Sound  with  their  white  houses  and  green  window 
blinds,  not  more  than  twenty  miles  east  of  New-Haven,  lived  my 
highly  respected  uncle,  Zimri  Bladley,  Esq.  He  was  a  man  of 
•  some  consequence  in  his  day,  having  successively  filled  the  offices 
of  ty thing-man,  grand-juryman,  selectman,  and  sometime  justice  of 
the  quorum.  He  would  have  continued  to  enforce  a  wholesome 
moral  discipline  among  the  unruly  boys  of  the  congregation,  as  a 
tything-man,  longer,  probably,  than  he  did,  were  it  not  that  there 
was  always  a  sly  laughing  devil  lurking  in  his  eye ;  so  that  when, 
with  his  mace  of  office,  he  rapped  the  head  of  one  mischievous 
urchin,  or  attempted  to  gather  a  frown  as  he  shook  his  wig  at  ano- 
ther— for  tittering  when  aunt  Deborah  Hornblower  started  from  her 
sleep,  as  she  tuned  her  nasal  organ  too  high  for  the  voice  of  the  Rev. 
^Ir.  Wakeman — instead  of  checking  the  one,  or  intimidating  the 
other  into  a  seemly  and  reverent  silence,  he  invariably  had  the  ill 
fortune  to  set  a  dozen  more  into  a  giggling  titillation.  As  a  select- 
man, uncle  Zim  was  kind  to  the  poor ;  and,  as  in  duty  bound,  he 
more  than  once  had  several  common  drunkards  exhibited  in  the 
stocks.  As  justice  of  the  quorum,  he  held  the  scales  with  a  steady 
and  impartial  hand,  though  he  was  not  much  of  a  lawyer.  Indeed, 
the  public  would  not  so  soon  have  lost  the  benefit  of  his  services 
on  the  bench,  had  he  not  fallen  into  an  unlucky  mistake,  in  attempt- 
ing to  use  technical  language.  It  devolved  upon  him,  on  some 
ordinary  occasion,  to  charge  the  jury,  in  an  action  on  a  promissory 
note,  to  which  the  defence  set  up  was  a  want  of  consideration. 
Uncle  Zim  advised  to  find  for  the  defendant,  ''  as  the  alibi  was  clearly 
made  out."  He  was,  in  this  instance,  as  unfortunate  as  the  pedant, 
whose  whole  stock  of  Latin  was,  '•'- qiddhorae^  est  domineV*  of 

*  What  o'clock  is  it,  sir  1 


^^4  UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    PETTIEONE. 

which  he  was  SO  proud,  that  he  was  continually  putting  the  question 
to  all  whom  he  met ;   till,  one  day,  a  stranger  upon  whom  he  inflicted 
it,  after  looking  ut  his  watch,  replied— "^y/«;-r/  manualls   mei 
motus  turbatur,  domine:'*     The  pedant  turned  away  in  a  great 
haste,  profanely  saying,  "  Bless  my  soul !  I  didn't  think  it  was  so  late," 
—much  to  the  amusement  of  the  young  freshmen,  who  heard  of  it 
soon  afterwards.     Uncle  Zim.  however,  would  have  encountered  no 
such  rebuff  from  any  of  the  "gentlemen  of  the  jury;"  for  his  alibi 
sounded  as  sweetly  in  their  ears,  as  Mesopotamia  in  those  of  the 
old  lady,  who  could  give  no  other  reason  for  crying  at  a  sermon, 
but  "that  blessed  word  Mesopotamia,  which  continued  to  ring  so 
sweetly  in  her  ears."     But  lawyer  Daggett  and  lawyer  Wagstaff 
took  occasion  to  make  themselves  merry  at  the  expense  of  his  wor- 
ship.    Uncle  Zim  was  a  man  of  spirit,  and  some  pride  withal ;  and 
no  sooner  had  he  heard  of  his  error,  and  that  the  wags  were  laugh- 
ing about  the  "alibi,"  when  his  back  was  turned,  than  he  threw  his 
commission  into  the  fire,  declaring  that  after  all,  it  was  a  wise  say- 
ing, that  "a  cobbler  should  stick  to  his  last." 

The  village  above  mentioned,  which  we   shall  call   Aj^plebury, 
was  a  quiet  sort  of  a  place,  where  the  people,  to  this  day,  walk  in 
the  ways  of  their  fathers,  queue  their  hair  with  eel-skins,  and  go 
to  and  from  meeting  "decently  and  in  order,"  in  accordance  with 
the  injunction  of  the  Saybrook  Platform,  and  as  all  honest  people 
should  do.     The  names,  titles,   and  biographers    of  their    ances- 
tors, since  the  days  of  governor  Leete  to  the  present,  curiously 
carved  in  immortal  freestone,   may  be  found   in   the   old  grave- 
yard, each  inscription  being  surmounted  either  by  a  death's  head 
and  cross-bones,  grinning  in  relief,   in  a  style   that  would  make 
the  grisly  messenger  himself  rattle  his  joints  for  very  laughter; 
or    the   head    of  a    cherub,  with  wings  stuck  on  where  the   ears 
should  be,  shaped  more  like  a  pair  of  bellows  handles  than  the 
pinions  of  one  of  Tom  Moore's  angels.     But  to  return  from   our 
digression ;  the  folks  of  Applebury  are  an  exceedingly  clever  peo- 
ple, in  the  Yankee  sense  of  the  term — most  of  them  attend  to  their 
own  business,  and  all  of  them  know  the  business  of  every  body 
else.     Here,  then — for  we  find  we  shall  have  to  begin  our  story 
again — here,  then,  lived  our  worthy  uncle  Zimri  Bradley. 

Uncle  Zim,  as  we  ased  to  call  him,  was  as  full  of  fun  and  mis- 

*  My  watch  has  stopped. 


UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    rETTIlJOA'E.  135 

chief  as  any  urcliin  in  the  village.  Near  hy  his  domicil,  sojourned 
Malaehi  Fowler,  who  married  the  accomplished  Miss  Abigail  Petti- 
bone,  of  Hazlewood,  the  adjoining  town,  whose  brother,  Eliakim 
Pettibono,  in  process  of  time,  became  a  deacon  of  the  church  in  that 
parish.  The  distance  was  only  about  twenty  miles,  and  deacon  Petti- 
bone  used  to  keep  every  thanksgiving  with  his  brother  Fowler uncle 

Zim  not  unfrequently  making  one  of  the  family  party.     But  thouo-h 
uncle  Zim  was  himself  a  Christian  professor,  according  to  the  Plat- 
form, and  in  the  main,  walked  according  to  the  vows  he  had  made  yet 
he  was  not  altogether  free  from  carnal  ways.     He  was  never  at  a  loss 
for  a  fact,  and  was  fond  of  telling  ludicrous  stories,  which,  in  his 
hands,  were  seldom  diminished  by  repetition.     He  could  not,  for  the 
soul  of  him,  suppress  a  joke  when  it  came  upon  his  tongue,  cut  where 
it  would.     On  one  of  these  occasions,  he  had  the  good,  or  the  ill  for- 
tune, to  keep  the  pious  deacon  Pettibone  roaring  with  laughter,  until 
his  very  ribs  cracked  again.     Much,  however,  it  grieved  the  good 
man  afterwards,  that  he  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  mirth, 
which  he  was  half-persuaded  had  been  excited  as  a  snare  by  the  evil 
one,  and  it  preyed  upon  his  spirits  the  whole  of  the  following  day, 
on  his  return  to  Hazlewood.     This  impression,  however,   soon  wore 
away,  and  he  lost  all  unpleasant  recollections  in  the  warm  and  affec- 
tionate smiles  with  which  he  was  welcomed  to  the  little  famil}-  circle 
of  his  happy  and  peaceful  abode. 

Soon  after  this  convivial  occurrence,  which  had,  for  the  moment, 
disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  conscientious  deacon  Pettibone's  inner 
man,  uncle  Zim  made  a  journey  to  Hazlewood  to  purchase  a  yoke 
of  oxen  of  Mr.  Ishmael  Crane,  nephew  of  Ichabod  Crane,  the  cele- 
brated schoolmaster,  for  which  he  vras  to  pay  in  "  West  India  goods," 
after  the  return  of  the  last  cargo  of  mules  and  whitefish,  shipped  bv 
him  to  Jamaica.  Uncle  Zim's  wits  were  as  bright  as  a  dollar :  he 
talked  as  slick  as  a  whistle ;  and  he  was  a  cute  chap  at  a  bargain,  as 
Mr.  Ishmael  Crane  soon  found  out. 

Mr.  Crane  took  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  consider,  before  he 
would  conclude  the  bargain,  and  as  it  was  just  twelve  o'clock  by  the 
conch-shell,  uncle  Zim  thought  he  would  go  and  take  pot-luck  with 
deacon  Pettibone,  who  lived  near  the  sch  aol-house  hard  by.  By  the 
way,  uncle  Zim  once  drove  a  barter  with  the  deacon  for  some  mules, 
for  which  the  deacon  always  thought  he  could  have  got  more,  if  he 
had  known  what  they  were  bringing  at  the  time ;  though,  as  uncle 
Zim  only  took  him  at  his  word  in  the  price  of  tlie  cattle,  he  had 
nothing  to  complain  of.     But  that  is  not  to  the  purpose. 


^36  UNCLE    ZOr    AXD    DEACON    PETTIBONE. 

While  at  dinner,  Mr.  Tslimael  Crane  came  and  called  the  deacon 
out,  to  inquire  something  about  the  character  of  my  Uncle  Zim- 
whereupon  the  following  dialogue  took  place  : 

"  What  sort  of  a  man,"  asked  Mr.  Crane,  "  is  this  'squire  Brad- 
ley ?" 

Deacon  Pettibone  had  not  forgotten  the  sale  of  his  mules,  nor 
Uncle  Zim's  fat  stories,  and  his  merry  jokes,  over  Beacon  Fowler's 
pumpkin-pies  and  cider-brandy  ;  nor  his  own  supposed  delinquency 
in  his  late  unseemly  merriment. 

''  What  sort  of  a  man  ?"  said  the  deacon,  repeating  his  words  : 

"Why,  he  is  a  member  of  good  Dr.  Wakeman's  church,  in  Apple- 
bury,  I  reckon." 

"  Well ;  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Know  him  !  I  guess  I  do  !  He  lives  next  door  to  brother 
Fowler's  ;  and  I  tell  you  he  is  a  member  of  Dr.  Wakeman's  church. 
But  I  guess " 

"  Guess  !  guess  what  ?     Don't  you  think  he  is  good  enough  for 

my  brindle  four-year-olds  ?" 

''  Why— yes— I  'spose  so— but  I  guess,  to  be  candid " 

"  Zounds,  deacon  !  what  do  you  mean  by  vour  guesses  and  your 

buts  ?" 

''  Why,  if  I  must  say,  I  guess  that  God-icard  he  means  to  do 
the  thing  that's  right,  but  man-ivard  I  reckon  he  is  a  little  tivisti- 
^.al  or  so." 

Mr.  Ishmael  Crane  went  away,  and  Deacon  Pettibone  returned 
and  finished  his  dinner  with  Uncle  Zim.  When  deacon  Pettibone 
stepped  out,  however,  he  had  unconsciously  left  the  door  ajar,  and 
the  consequence  was,  that  uncle  Zim  had  very  innocently  heard 
most  of  the  conversation.  But  he  knew  that  the  deacon  had  no 
malice  in  his  heart,  and  he  knew  also  the  cause  of  his  scruples  in 
qualifying  his  recommendation.  He  therefore  took  no  notice  at 
that  time  of  what  had  been  said  ;  but  determined,  in  his  own  mind, 
to  seek  some  innocent  and  characteristic  mode  of  revenge.  Mean- 
time, he  completed  his  bargain  in  the  afternoon,  and  drove  the  bul- 
locks home. 

Two  or  three  years  rolled  away,  and  as  his  sister  Abigail  pre- 
sented his  brother-in-law  with  so  many  young  Fowlers,  that  she 
had  little  time  for  going  abroad  herself,  deacon  Pettibone's  visits  to 
Applebury  were  continued  as  usual ;  on  which  occasions  he  always 
passed  an  evening  or  so  in  uncle   Zim's  company,  either  at  his  own 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  TETTIBONE.  137 

or  his  brother's  house.  Uncle  Zim'S  bosom  vras  filled  with  the 
milk  of  human  kindness.  Though  like  an  oA^er-ripe  melon,  rough 
on  the  outside,  as  the  poet  says,  there  was  much  sweetness  under 
it ;  and  his  winning  ways  were  such,  that  the  good  deacon  had  long 
since  dismissed  the  afi'air  of  the  mules,  and  the  temporary  trials  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  by  his  irresistible  drollery.  They 
therefore  continued  the  best  friends  in  the  world  ; — still  uncle  Zim 
never  lost  sight  of  his  project  in  some  way  of  avenging  himself  for 
having  been  represented  as  being  "  man-ward  rather   twistical   or 

so." 

One  morning,  bright  and  early,  as  deacon  Fowler  came  out  pick- 
ing his  teeth  from  breakfast,  while  the  dew-drops  were  yet  spang- 
liiig  the  meadows,  he  saw  uncle  Zim  just  preparing  to  mount  the 
old  dapple  mare,  with  his  butternut-colored  coat  strapped  on  behind 
the  saddle. 

"  Good  morning,  'squire,"  said  deacon  Fowler  ;  "  you  seem  to 
be  stirring  arly  this  morning.  ' 

"  Yes,"  said  uncle  Zim;  "in  the  hot  season,  the  morning  is  the 
best  part  of  the  day — Gad,  my  son,  mind  that  you  keep  the  cattle 
out  of  the  clover  patch  to-day" 


"  A  very  beautiful  day  to-day,  as  I  was  saying,  'squire" 

"  And  send  Jehiel  to  mill  this  afternoon. — Yes,  deacon,  a  fine 
beautiful  day.  The  air  is  as  sweet  as  a  new  hay-stack  this  morn- 
mg." 

"  You  are  going  to  take  a  ride  to-day,  I  guess,  'squire.  Pray 
which  way  are  you  journeying,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  going  to  Haddam,  to  speak  for  the  grave-stones 
for  good  old  aunt  Wealthy  Crookshanks." 

"  You'll  go  through  Hazlewood,  I  guess  ?  So,  I  wish  you'd  give 
brother  Pettibone  a  call,  and  see  how  thej^'re  all  dewing  there. 
Tell  them  that  Nabby's  got  another  nice  boy,  with  eyes  as  bright 
as  a  weasel's." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it's  like  enough  that  I  shall  stop  and  give  Dapple 
a  bait  there  on  my  return." 

"  D'ye  think  it's  going  to  rain  to-day,  'squire  ?  I  see  you've 
got  your  great-coat  with  you,  and  if  I  thought  'twould  rain,  I'd 
tell  the  boys  to  get  the  rest  of  the  hay  in." 

"  Don't  know,  don't  know,  deacon ;  they  say  a  fool  knows  enough 
to  take  a  great-coat  when  it  storms ;  and  every  body  knows   that 


138  UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    PETTIBONE. 

folks  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  shiues."     And  oflf  rode   undo 
Ziiii,  and  into  the  orchard  went  deacon  Fowler. 

Uncle  Zini  came  back  in  the  evening,  and  overtook  deacon  Fowler, 
returning  from  the  meadow,  just  as  he  had  descended  to  the  foot  of 
Clapboard  hill. 

"Ah!  is  that  you,  'squire?"  said  deacon  Fowler;  "you  are 
home  arly  to-night,  I  calculate." 

"  Yes,"  replied  uncle  Zim  ;  "  old  Dapple  will  carry  me  along  at 
the  rate  of  seven  miles  an  hour,  day  in  and  day  out,  w^ithout  put- 
ting on  the  long  oats  neither." 

"  A  faithful  beast,  I  vow.     You  saw  brother  Pettibone,  I  hope." 

"  Yes — I  saw  him" — replied  uncle  Zim,  with  a  grave,  mysterious 
air,  such  as  deacon  Fowler  had  never  seen  before,  upon  his  neigh- 
bor's lively  countenance. 

"  Saw  him  ! — he  was  well,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Why — yes — he  was — pretty  well,  I  believe." 

"  Nothing  unusual  was  the  matter,  I  hope,  'squire  ?" 

"  No — I — I  can't  say  that  there  was  any  thing  unusual^''  replied 
uncle  Zim,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  upon  the  last  word. 

"  And  how  were  his  family  ?" 

"  All  very  well ;  save  the  youngest  child,  Habakuk,  which  has 
the  measles." 

"  And  brother  Pettibone  himself,  is  he  ailing  in  any  way  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  that  he  was  much  ailing.  Perhaps,  moreover,  I  was 
mista — no,  I  can't  be  mistaken  either." 

"  Why,  'squire,  you  frighten  me.  For  goodness'  sake,  what  was 
the  matter  ?     You're  sure  you  saw  him  ?" 

"Yes; — I — I  met  him,"  replied  uncle  Zim,  with  the  same  as- 
sumed air  of  mystery. 

"  And  how  was  he  ?  do  speak  out  and  let  me  know  the  worst 
on't,  'squire." 

"  Why,  then — if  I  must  say" — replied  uncle  Zim — "  I  should 
think  when  I  met  him,  he  was  about — ^yes,  just  about  half  shaved?^ 

"  Impossible  !  you  must  be  joking,  'squire." 

"  It's  true,  joke  or  no  joke,"  said  uncle  Zim. 

By  this  time  the  parties  had  reached  the  green.  The  two  last 
sentences  of  uncle  Zim's  had  fallen  upon  the  worthy  deacon  Fowler 
like  a  pail  of  ice  water ;  and  he  went  to  his  house  with  a  heavy 
heart.  He  did  not  sleep  a  wink  all  that  night,  and  the  humiliating 
fact  pressed  so  heavily  upon  his  mind — though  it  was  his  first  inten- 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIBONE.  139 

tion  to  liave  kept  it  a  profound  secret,  until  he  could  have  inquired 
into  the  particulars  of  his  brother's  being  overcome  with  li'^uor, — 
that  he  was  even  constrained  lo  communicate  the  dismal  tidings  to 
his  faithful  Abigail.  It  was  indeed  planting  a  pang  in  her  breast, 
without  extracting  the  barb  which  rankled  in  his  own  bleeding 
bosom.     But  truly  hath  the  poet  said  of  woman, 

"When  pain  and  anguish  -wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou; — " 

and  Abigail,  after  the  first  gush  of  feeling  had  subsided,  half  forgot 
her  own  sorrow  in  her  endeavors  to  soothe  that  of  her  husband.  A 
thousand  little  comforting  hopes,  excuses,  and  palliating  circum- 
stances came  into  her  mind.  Her  brother  might  not  have  been  so 
badly  off  as  the  'squire  supposed.  He  might  have  been  unwell ; 
or  perhaps  he  had  been  overcome  by  drinking  ever  so  little  on  an 
empty  stomach.  The  deacon  folded  his  faithful  spouse  closer  to  his 
heart,  and  both  determined  that  nothing  should  be  said  about  the 
circumstance,  even  in  their  ovm  family,  for  the  present.  And 
between  haying  time  and  harvest,  it  was  agreed  that  deacon  Fowler 
should  go  up  to  Hazlewood,  and  commune  with  his  brother  Petti- 
bone,  privately,  upon  the  subject. 

But  Mrs.  Abigail  Fowler,  notwithstanding  her  many  fine  tiuali- 
ties,  was  not  entirely  free  from  the  frailties  of  the  other  daughters 
of  Eve ;  and  while  alone  on  the  ensuing  day,  her  husband  being 
engaged  w^ith  his  workmen  in  the  fields,  the  secret  became  so  bur- 
densome that  she  wanted  somebody  to  help  her  keep  it.  Per- 
haps, also,  in  her  affliction,  she  thought  she  needed  the  sympa- 
thies of  one,  at  least,  of  her  most  confidential  female  friends,  who 
might,  in  turn,  soothe  her  sorrows,  and  pour  a  few  drops  of  balsam 
into  her  wounded  heart.  In  an  evil  hour,  therefore,  she  revealed 
the  tale  of  woe  to  Mrs.  Aimwell,  who  kindly  spent  the  whole  after- 
noon in  comforting  the  afflicted  woman,  by  telling  over  how  many 
others  were  suffering  under  still  greater  calamities.  Temperance 
societies  had  not  then  been  invented. 

Mrs.  Aimwell  left  the  deacon's  after  tea,  promising  not  to  whis- 
per a  breath  about  it.  '  You  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Fowler,'  said  she, 
'  that  I  wouldn't  do  no  such  thing  for  the  world.'  But  she,  too, 
wanted  some  one  to  help  her  keep  the  secret,  and  so  she  hinted  it  to 
Mrs.  Sly.  This  was  enough.  It  was  on  Thursday  ;  and  it  was  no 
longer  than  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  at  a  meeting  of  the  frag- 


110  UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    PETTIBONE. 

• 

ment  .-society,  tluit  the  members  were  startled  by  the  exclamation  of 
Mrs.  Doolittle,  preceded  by  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  to  the  following 
efleet : — 

*'  Dear  me  !  wlioVI  have  thought  it  !    Well,  I  don't  know  who  will 
fall  next,  for  my  part. 

Now,  justice  to  Mrs.  Doolittle  requires  mc  to  say  in  this  place, 
that  she  was  no  mischief  maker ;  and,  that,  next  to  a  witch,  she  held 
a  slanderer  as  an  utter  abomination.  She  was  a  very  tidy  body, 
and  the  worthy  helpmate  of  my  venerated  great  uncle,  Capt.  Jasper 
Doolittle,  of  Cohabit.  There  was  no  more  notable  housewife  in  all 
the  parish.  She  used  to  begin  her  washing  on  Sabbath-day  nights, 
as  soon  as  three  stars  could  be  seen,  in  order  to  have  her  ample 
stores  of  linen,  white  as  the  driven  snow,  streaming  in  triumph  upon 
the  clothes-line,  like  the  lily-flag  of  the  fallen  Bourbons,  at  an  earlier 
hour  than  her  neighbors  on  Mondays.  And  ber  quince-  and-apple 
saace,  and  boiled  cider,  were  exactly  the  best  to  be  found  bet^reen 
Branford  and  Pettypaug.  But,  rest  her  good  soul !  her  benevolent 
heart  occasionally  felt  too  deeply  for  others'  woes,  to  enable  her 
always  to  hide  the  faults  she  saw  or  heard  of.  Not  but  that  she 
meant  to  do  it.  But  as  in  the  instance  before  us,  there  were  some- 
times secrets  actually  too  great  to  be  concealed  within  the  narrow 
casement  of  her  noble  soul,  and  then  it  was  impossible  to  prevent 
their  breaking  forth  in  exclamations  full  of  meaning,  as  we  have 
seen.     '  Dear  me  !  who'd  have  thought  it !'  &c. 

'  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?'  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices  at  once. 
'  I  hope,'  continued  Miss  Tabitha  Tattler,  a  lady  of  no  particular 
age,  '  that  the  stocking  story  about  Miss  Prim  is  not  true.  But 
I've  heard  as  much  ever  since  Ned  Bramble  came  home  from  thc 
south.     She's  kept  company  with  him  ever  since  last  thanksgiving.' 

'  No  ;'  said  Mrs.  Doolittle,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head. 
*  That's  like-enough,  too.  But  havn't  you  heard  of  the  fall  of  good 
deacon  Pettibone  ?' 

'  Of  Hazlewood  ?     He  hain't  hurt  himself  much,  I  hope  ?' 

'  I  don't  mean  a  fall  from  a  barn  or  a  hay-stack,  child,'  said  Mrs. 
Doolittle.     '  But  havn't  you  heard  on't  V 

'  No  !'  replied  sixteen  voices  in  a  breath.  '  Do  let  us  hear  all 
about  it.' 

'  Why,'  said  Mrs.  Doolittle,  '  you  must  know  it's  a  great  secret 
yet ;  and  one  doesn't  want  to  expose  a  body's  failings,  you  know. 
But  I'll  tell  you,  thougb  it  must  not  go  from  me,  for  I  wouldn't  in- 


UNCLE  ZIM  AND  DEACON  PETTIEONE.  141 

jure  the  hair  of  any  mortal  being's  head.  You  know  I  cannot  en- 
dure scandal !  And  all  I  can  now  say,  is,  that  Mrs.  Crampton  told 
me,  that  she  heard  Mr.  Wilcox's  wife  say,  that  Mrs.  Munger's  aunt 
mentioned  to  her,  that  Mrs.  Graves  was  present,  when  the  widow 
Blatchley  said,  that  Ick.  Scran's  wife  thought  Captain  Evett's  sister 
believed,  that  old  Mrs.  Willard  reckoned,  that  Ephraim  Stanard's 
better  half  had  told  Mrs.  Hand,  that  she  heard  Mrs.  Sly  say,  that 
deacon  Fowler's  wife  had  told  Mrs.  Aimwell,  as  a  great  secret,  that 
the  deacon  had  told  her,  that  'squire  Bradley  had  seen  deacon  Petti- 
bone  dead  drunk,  after  an  ordination  dinner.' 

'  Do  tell !'  was  the  brief  and  emphatic  exclamation  of  the  benevo- 
lent coterie. 

This,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  was  on  Friday,  and  the  subtle 
electrical  fluid  could  scarcely  have  traveled  faster  than  didthestorjr 
of  the  deacon's  failing.     From  mouth  to  mouth — 

"  The  flying  rumor  jrathered  as  it  roll'd, 

And  scarce  the  tale  was  sooner  heard  than  tokl; 

And  all  who  told  it  added  something  new — 

And  all  who  heard  it  made  enlargement  too — 

In  every  ear  it  spread,  on  every  tongue  it  grew'' — 

so  that,  before  Saturday  night,  the  fatal  account  had  reached  Hazle- 
wood,  enlarged  and  improved,  until  the  story  of  the  three  black 
crows  was  nothing  to  it.  Nor  did  it  hesitate  to  travel  Saturday 
night,  although  the  blue  laws  were  then  yet  in  force.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  before  the  cows  were  all  milked  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, every  body,  out  of  the  deacon's  unsuspecting  family,  w^as  ac- 
quainted with  the  melancholy  catastrophe  supposed  to  have  over- 
taken that  truly  excellent  man.  ^ 

Of  course  the  painful  news  was  the  general  theme  of  conversation 
among  the  groups  which  collected  around  the  portals  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, while  the  bell  was  tolling  for  the  minister,  the  late  excellent 
and  reverend  Mr.  Gamaliel  Holdfast.  The  deacon  presently  ap- 
proached :  but  never  before  was  he  so  coldly  greeted  by  his  friends. 
And  as  for  enemies,  it  is  believed  that  he  never  had  one.  Every 
countenance  seemed  looking  darkly  upon,  or  averted  from  him. 
P&ople  even  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  proffered  grasp  of  his  friendly 
hand.  But  the  good  deacon,  iji  the  unsuspecting  simplicity  of  his 
innocence,  did  not  observe  the  change,  and  as  the  minister  came 
along,  all  gathered  into  the  venerable  meeting-house.  Every  body 
cast  a  searching  eye — '  a  furtive  glance,'  our- friend  Cooper  w^ould 


J4'2  uxcLE  znr  axd  deacon  pettibone. 

say — upon  the  deacon;  while  he  was  engaged,  as  others  should  have 
been,  in  searching  his  own  heart. 

The  services  proceeded  as  usual  :  hut  at  the  close  the  minister 
gave  out  a  notice  for  a  special  meeting  of  the  ciders  and  deacons  of 
the  church,  to  be  held  on  Wednesda}",  upon  busincps  of  great  im- 
portance. And  after  exhorting  his  little  flock  so  to  conduct  them- 
selves as  to  show,  that  though  in  the  world,  thc}^  were  not  of  the 
worlil,  and  suitably  admonishing  the  officers,  as  assistant  shepherds, 
to  make  themselves  patterns  in  good  works — not  forgetting  to  re- 
mind them  of  the  passage,  '  Let  him  that  standeth  take  heed  lest  he 
fair — (upon  which  stolen  glances  were  again  cast  at  the  good  deacon 
Pettibone) — the  benediction  was  pronounced.  The  deacon,  how- 
ever, did  not  observe  and  never  once  thought,  that  he  was  the  sole 
object  of  this  special  exhortation,  or  of  the  dark  and  suspicious 
gaze  of  the  congregation.  His  heart  was  right,  and  his  eyes  had 
been  closed  in  the  attitude  of  deep  and  heartfelt  adoration.  Thus 
he  who  was  most  interested  in  the  dark  givings  out,  was  the  least 
conscious  of  their  existence. 

The  story,  as  we  have  already  seen,  had  grown  in  its  travels,  like 
that  of  the  boy  who  saw  a  thousand  cats  in  the  cellar;  and  for 'the 
three  subsequent  days,  the  deacon's  house  was  shunned  as  though  it 
had  been  the  seat  of  the  plague.  Meantime,  as  uncle  Zim's  name 
was  somehow  connected  with  the  tale,  one  of  the  elders  was  des- 
patched to  Applebury,  to  incjuire  into  the  real  facts  of  the  state- 
ment which  had  brought  such  heavy  and  unexpected  scandal  upon 
the  little  Zion  of  Hazlewood.  On  his  arrival,  he  immediately  had 
an  interview  with  uncle  Zim,  and  commenced  an  inquiry  into  the 
facts  of  i^  case  which  had  brought  him  to  Applebur}^ 

'  'Squire  Bradley,'  said   Mr.  Elnathan  Cook — for  such  was  the 

cognomen  of  this  important  messenger — '  it  is  rumored  up  our  way, 

that  you  have  said,  that  you  met  deacon  Pettibone  last  week,  drunk.' 

'  Then  I  guess  rumor  lies,'  replied  Uncle  Zim,  '  for  I  hain't  said 

no  such  thing.' 

'  But  pray,  'squire,  what  did  you  say,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  ?' 
'  Why,'  replied  uncle  Zim,  '  I  only  said  that  I  met  him  about 
Jialf  shaved.' 

The  result  was,  that  although  Mr.  Elnathan  Cook  was  one  of  the 
cutest  chaps  in  those  parts  at  a  cross-examination,  he  having  for- 
merly been  an  unlicensed  practitioner  of  the  law  in  a  justice's  court, 
he  obtained  just  so  much  information  from  uncle  Zim,  and  no  more 


UNCLE    ZIM    AND    DEACON    PETTIBONE.  143 

Uncle  Zim  was  requested  to  go  up  to  Hazlewood,  and  attend  tlie 
council  as  a  witness ;  but  this  he  declined  peremptorily,  as  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  making  up  a  cargo  of  mules  for  the  West  Indies. 
He  assured  the  zealous  Elnathan,  however,  that  deacon  Pettibone's 
neorro  man,  Camillus,  or  Cam,  as  he  was  called  for  the  sake  of 
brevity,  knew  as  much  as  he  did,  and  could  tell  them  all  about  it. 
As  Cam  was  known  to  be  a  very  honest  fellow,  this  assurance  gave 
the  messenger  much  satisfaction  ;  so  he  clambered  into  his  '  one 
horse  shay,'  and  got  him  back  to  Hazlewood. 

The  wheels  of  time  rapidly  brought  Wednesday  along,  when  the 
church  council  assembled,  and  the  yet  unsuspecting  deacon  Petti- 
bone,  expecting  to  hear  the  names  of  some  reclaimed  sinners  pro- 
pounded for  membership,  came  among  them.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Hold- 
fast was  appointed  moderator.  An  unusual  air  of  solemnity  per- 
vaded the  council,  and  in  imploring  the  direction  and  blessing  of 
heaven  upon  their  proceedings,  the  moderator  was  peculiarly  earnest, 
and  much  affected.  Indeed  the  half  suppressed  sighs  from  various 
bosoms,  plainly  indicated  that  they  had  business  in  their  hands, 
which  went  home  to  their  hearts. 

At  length  the  momentous  subject  of  their  meeting  was  opened^ 
and  the  charge  of  intemperance  formally  preferred  against  no  less  a. 
master  in  Israel,  than  deacon  Eliakim  Pettibone,  then  and  there 
present.  Had  a  bolt  from  heaven  fallen  at  his  feet,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  astonished  or  confounded.  For  a  while,  his  hand 
pressed  upon  his  temple — he  remained  dumb  with  amazement — then 
raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  solemnly  protested  his  innocence — but 
in  vain ;  and  in  vain  did  he  tax  his  memory  to  recall  any  circum- 
stance in  his  life,  that  could  have  given  rise  to  such  an  unlooked  for 
scandal.  In  vain,  likewise,  did  he  demand  the  name  of  the  in- 
former upon  whose  testimony  the  accusation  was  preferred ;  for 
ancle  Zim  had  stipulated  that  his  name  was  not  to' be  used,  save  in 
the  very  last  resort.     Finally,  the  witness,  Camillus,  was  sent  for. 

Camillus  soon  arrived,  and  came  grinning  into  the  conference 
room,  exhibiting  the  whole  treasury  of  his  ivory ;  but  he  immedi- 
ately saw  that  his  kind  master  was  in  deep  affliction,  and  his  own 
heart  soon  yearned  with  compassion.  There  the  good  deacon  sat, 
his  head  bowed  down,  and  supported  by  his  hands  :  he  raised  it  not, 
but  hid  nis  tears  in  his  bandanna,  and  smothered  the  sighs  heaving 
up  and  struggling  to  escape  his  throbbing  bosom. 


MODESTY. 


Cam,"  said  the  uiodorator,  with  solemn  gravity,  "  we  have  sev4 
for  you  because  we  want  you  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  niassa  minister,  me  always  tell  de  troot  to  shame  a  debble. 

"  Well,  Cam,  we  believe  you  wdll.  Now  tell  us,  Cam,  did  you 
ever  see  your  master  intoxicated  ?" 

"  Me  ebber  see  massa  tosticatcd  !  golly,  ony  tink  o'  dat !" 

''  But,  Cam,  you  must  tell  us  the  truth;  now  didn't  you  ever  see 
your  master  when  he  was  intoxicated — when  he  had  drunk  too 
much." 

"  Golly,  no,  massa  minister." 

[Here  a  consultation  took  place,  among  a  few  of  the  members  of 
ihe  council,  in  an  under  tone.] 

''  Don't  you  remember  that  'squire  Bradley,  who  lives  in  tlie 
second  house  beyond  the  stocks  and  whipping-post,  north  of  the 
meeting  house  in  Applebury,  came  up  to  see  your  master  last  Wed- 
nesday ?" 

"  Yes,  massa,  me  know  dat  berry  well." 

"■  Well,  that's  very  good  now.  Cam  :  and  when  'squire  Bradky 
met  your  master,  was  he  not  about  ha(f  shaved  V 

"  0  yes,  massa :  when  'squire  Brabley  ride  by  ee  window,  massa 
Pettibone  was  juss  shaving  heself,  I  guess;  but  den  he  so  grad  to 
see  de  squire,  he  run  out  door  to  shak'ee  hand,  wid  ee  lather  all  on 
one  side  he  face  !' 

Here  the  mighty  mystery  was  solved.  All  knew  the  droll  mischiev- 
ous character  of  uncle  Zim,  and  the  truth  flashed  upon  their  minds 
in  an  instant.  A  bitter  smile  played  across  the  features  of  the  good 
deacon,  as  he  meekly  raised  his  dark  hazle  eyes,  glistening  with 
tears,  and  in  his  heart  returned  thanks  for  his  deliverance.  The 
council  was  broken  up— a  thousand  sincere  apologies  were  tendered 
to  the  good  man — and  the  parties  all  set  their  faces  towards  their 
respective  homes— the  worthy  deacon  being  more  strongly  than  ever 
convinced,  that  '■  man-ward,  uncle  Zim  was  rathep^  twistical  or 


so." 


-♦  ■  ^  ■  » 


Modesty,  if  it  were  to  be  recommended  for  nothing  else,  this  is 
enough,  that  pretending  to  little  leaves  a  man  at  ease,  whereas 
boasting  requires  perpetual  labor  to  appear  what  he  is  not.  If  wo 
have  sense,  modesty  best  proves  it  to  others ;  if  we  have  none,  it 
best  hides  our  want  of  it. 


CAPTAIN    SMITH    AND    POCAHONTAS. 


Everybody  knows  the  history  of  these  personages;  everybody 
•  believes  it  as  firmly  as  though  it  had  appeared  for  the  first  time  yes- 
terday in  a  newspaper.  But  is  it  a  true  story  after  all  ?  The  pro- 
gress of  historical  science,  or  rather  historical  inquiry,  is  continually 
depriving  us  of  beautiful  legends  in  which  our  childhood  delighted, 
which  poets  and  painters  were  interested  with  the  additional  charms 
of  song  and  pictorial  grace,  and  to  which  we  have  clung  through 
life  with  the  most  undoubting  faith.  Who  has  not  felt  his  blood 
tingle  and  his  heart  beat  high  in  reading  the  tale  of  the  Swiss 
patriot's  unerring  arrow  and  the  cleft  apple  ?  Who  has  not 
believed,  with  all  his  soul,  that  Geisler  and  William  Tell  were 
as  historically  real  as  Washington  and  George  the  Third  ?  Yet, 
now  we  are  assured  "by  the  best  authority,"  that  the  spirit-stirring 
narrative  is  a  mere  fiction ;  that  the  plumed  hat  planted  on  high  for 
the  reverence  of  the  indignant  Switzers,  the  second  arrow  hidden 
beneath  the  coat  of  the  dauntless  archer,  the  apple  on  the  boy's  head, 
all  are  no  better  than  figments — creations  of  some  lively  fancy, 
having  no  substantial  relations  of  time  and  place  of  which  authentic 
record  can  be  found. 

Less  universal,  but  held  of  equally  firm  credence  is  the  story  of 
the  faithful  dog  on  which  Sir  Walter  built  his  ballad  of  Beth  Gelert. 
In  Welsh  tradition,  in  Scottish  and  Irish,  the  fidelity  of  the  noble 
hound  is  immortalized,  with  the  erring  wrath  of  the  stout  baron. 
Gentle  eyes  have  wept  as  they  hurried  adown  the  page  and  read  how 
the  faithful  dog  was  left  to  watch  by  the  cradle  of  the  sleeping  heir 
— how  the  parents,  on  their  return,  found  the  cradle  empty  and  Beth 
Gelert  with  bloody  jaws — how  the  father,  in  his  anguish  and  fury,, 
believing  that  the  dog  had  slain  and  devoured  the  child,  with  hasty 
hand  smote  him  to  death — and  how,  on  looking  more  clos^y  into 
the  case,  as  they  should  have  done  at  first,  they  discovered  that  the 
child  was  safe  and  sound,  hidden  away  somewhere  under  a  table  or 
a  sofa,  and  that  the  ensanguined  stain  of  the  good  dog's  jaws  was 
caused  by  the  blood  of  a  huge  wolf  which  had  approached  the  cradle 


148  CAPTAIN  SMITH  AND  POCAHONTAS, 

with  felonious  intent,  and  wliicli  he  had  slain  after  a  desperate  hat- 
tie.  Childhood  and  manhood  have  believed  this  legend  ;  hut  Col. 
Fitzgerald  showed  me  its  original,  years  ago,  in  the  library  of  the 
Royal  Asiatic  Society ;  showed  me  that  it  was  an  oriental  story, 
current  in  the  literature  of  the  Hindoos  long  before  the  llomans 
made  their  first  visit  to  the  half-naked  barbarians  of  the  British 
island;  the  only  difference  being  that  in  the  oriental  tale  the  faithful 
animal  was  an  ichneumon  and  the  invader  of  the  cradle  a  deadly 
serpent. 

I  remember  reading,  in  my  younger  days,  a  very  ingenious  argu- 
ment to  prove  that  there  never  was  such  a  man  as  Napoleon 
Bonaparte;  or  I  should  rather  say  to  prove  that  the  evidence 
en  which  we  believe  in  his  existence,  and  in  all  the  wonderful  events 
that  make  up  history,  is  not  sufficient  to  command  belief.  The 
pamphlet  was  written  to  meet  the  objections  of  infidels  who  cavil 
at  the  divine  narratives  of  the  New  Testament,  by  showing  that  the 
same  objections  might  be  urged,  with  equal  force,  against  the  truth 
of  events  so  recent  as  those  forming  the  career  of  the  French  Em- 
peror. The  same  course  of  argumentation  might  be  employed,  with 
even  greater  plausibility,  against  the  verity  of  the  story  in  which 
Pocahontas  figures  to  such  advantage.  In  fact,  it  would  puzzle  the 
most  ingenious  dialectician  to  prove  that  there  was  a  Pocahontas,  a 
Powhattan,  or  even  a  Captain  Smith.  We  have  only  to  set  out 
with  the  determination  to  believe  nothing  except  on  the  testimony 
of  our  own  eyes  and  ears — which  is  the  method  of  those  who  seek 
to  impeach  the  New  Testament,  and  we  have  a  position  more  impreg- 
nable than  Gibraltar.  We  need  not  even  go  so  far  as  this ;  it  will 
be  enough  to  insist  on  the  evidence  of  credible  witnesses  whom  we 
may  cross-examine,  as  they  do  in  the  courts  of  justice.  Books  may 
bo  false — we  know  that  they  are  often  false.  Printers  can  make 
their  types  say  what  they  please — why  should  we  give  more  belief 
to  the  story  of  Captain  Smith,  because  we  find  it  in  sundry  books, 
than  we  do  to  the  story  of  Captain  Grulliver  ?  Bring  us  somebody 
who  has  seen  the  lovely  Indian  princess — in  the  engraving.  I  re- 
gret to  say,  her  loveliness  is  a  thing  to  dream  of,  not  to  see — bring 
us  Captain  Smith  himself,  for,  after  all,  we  have  only  his  eviofence 
for  the  truth  of  the  story  which  the  engraving  was  designed  to  illus- 
trate. Admitting  that  divers  of  his  companions  certify  to  the  exist- 
ence of  Pocahontas  and  Powhattan ;  that  books  and  manuscripts, 
alleged  to  be  contero.poraneous  records,  speak  of  her  being  in  Eng- 


CAPTAIN  SMITH  AND  POCAHONTAS.  149 

land,  of  lier  marriage  to  Mr.  Rolfe,  of  her  presentation  at  Court 
and  of  lier  early  death ;  admitting  all  this,  we  still  have  only  Cfjp- 
tain  John  Smith's  word  for  the  murderous  intentions  of  Powhattan, 
and  for  the  heroic  interposition  of  Powhattan's  gentle  and  copper- 
colored  daughter.  The  captain  professes  to  have  been  alone  in  that 
adventure ;  the  tale  rests  on  his  veracity  alone ;  was  he  a  man  of 
unquestionable  veracity  ?  I  do  not  say  that  he  was  not,  but  who 
can  say  that  he  was  ?  Who  can  give  assurance  that  in  this  particu- 
lar matter  he  did  not  draw  upon  his  imagination,  to  magnify  his 
peril  in  the  service  of  the  colony?  31  en  will  do  such  things,  some- 
times. 

Perhaps  the  story  is  an  allegory — a  myth — like  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress  of  excellent  old  John  Bunyan.  Captain  Smith,  for  exam- 
ple, may  be  taken  as  a  representation,  or  image,  or  embodiment,  of 
European  civilization  struggling  for  the  mastery  with  the  power  of 
barbarism,  shadowed  forth  in  the  person  of  the  Indian  monarch. 
Pocahontas  may  represent  the  latent  virtues  of  barbarism,  coming 
to  the  aid  and  rescue  of  civilization  in  the  contest ;  or  she  may  stand 
for  the  intelligence  of  the  red  people,  opposing  itself  to  then-  ferocity. 
The  capture  of  Smith  and  his  condemnation  to  death  may  signify 
generally  the  perils  incident  to  the  establishment  of  white  men 
among  savages;  and  under  this  supposition,  Pocahontas  may  be 
conceived  to  represent  the  interposition  of  Providence.  An  in- 
genious person,  now,  might  build  up  a  very  pretty  theory  of  this 
kind ;  bringing  in  all  the  details  of  the  narrative  and  making  a 
plausible  application  of  them  to  the  purposes  of  such  a  myth  as  is 
here  suggested. 

But  cui  bono  ?  Suppose  we  prove  Captain  Smith  to  be  a  Ferdi- 
nand Mendez  Pinto  or  a  John  Bunyan,  to  what  extent  are  we  pro- 
fited by  the  operation  ?  The  story  as  it  stands  is  a  beautiful  and 
touching  story;  one  very  worthy  of  belief ;  and  for  the  sake  of 
Pocahontas  I  would  not  have  it  disproved  if  I  could.  I  say  for 
the  sake  of  Pocahontas,  not  of  Captain  Smith,  for  in  truth  I  have 
no  great  opinion  of  that  renowned  adventurer.  Whatever  noble 
qualities  he  may  have  had,  whatever  noble  deed  he  may  have  done, 
I  have  no  love  for  him ;  I  can  never  forgive  his  after  conduct  to  the 
Princess  who  saved  his  life ;  conduct  which  all  accounts  ajree  in 
representing  as  cruel  and  heartless,  and  of  which  there  is  too  much 
reason  to  believe  that  it  was  even  worse. 

For  her  sake,  then,  let  us  believe  the  story ;  let  it  be  sacred  in 


150  A  sister's  value. 

our  memories  and  our  faitli.  Another  and  most  beautiful  illustra- 
tion added  to  the  long  and  illusti-ious  catalogue  of  those  in  which 
the  tenderness  and  truth  and  fortitude  of  woman,  are  recorded  for 
the  admiration  and  the  shame  of  man — admiration  for  her  noble 
■jualities,  shame  for  the  cruel  injustice  and  wrong  of  which  even 
those  qualities  are  too  often  made  at  once  the  instrument  and  the 
victi)u. 


»  ■  ♦ 


A    SISTER'S    VALUE. 


Have  you  a  sister  ?  Then  love  and  cherish  her  with  all  that 
pure  and  holy  friendship,  which  renders  a  brother  so  worthy  and 
noble.  Learn  to  appreciate  her  sweet  influence,  as  portrayed  in  the 
following  words  : — 

He  who  has  never  known  a  sister's  kind  ministration,  nor  felt  his 
heart  warming  beneath  her  enduring  smile  and  love-beaming  eye, 
has  been  unfortunate  indeed.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  if  the 
fountain  of  pure  feeling  flows  in  his  bosom  but  sluggishly,  or  if  the 
gentle  emotions  of  his  nature  be  lost  in  the  sterner  attributes  of 
mankind. 

'That  man  has  grown  up  among  affectionate  sisters,"  I  once 
heard  a  lady  of  much  observation  and  experience  remark. 

"  And  why  do  you  think  so  ?"  said  I. 

"  Because  of  the  rich  development  of  all  the  tender  feelings  of 
the  heart." 

A  sister's  influence  is  felt  in  manhood's  riper  years;  and  the 
heart  of  him  who  has  grown  cold  in  contact  with  the  world  will 
warm  and  thrill  with  pure  enjoyment  as  some  accident  awakens 
within  him  the  soft  tones,  the  glad  melodies  of  his  sister's  voice  ; 
and  he  will  turn  from  purposes  which  a  wrapped  and  false  philosophy 
had  reasoned  into  expediency,  and  even  weep  for  the  gentle  influence 
which  moved  him  in  earlier  years. 


«  ♦  ■  » 


The  world  is  a  great  book,  of  which  they  that  never  stir  from 
home,  read  only  the  title  page. 


THE    UTILITARIAN. 


We  were  walking  together  in  a  "broad,  unfrequented  street  of 
Philadelphia.  All  at  once  we  heard  a  strange  uproar  a  great  way 
off,  growing  louder  and  louder  every  moment ;  and  before  we  could 
imagine  the  cause,  a  boy  at  the  head  of  the  street  cried  out,  "  Here 
they  come !  here  they  come !"  The  people  rushed  out  of  their 
houses,  another  and  another  took  up  tlie  cry,  and  it  flew  by  us 
like  the  signal  of  a  telegraph.  And  then  all  was  still  as  death, 
frightfully  still,  and  the  next  moment  a  pair  of  large,  powerful 
horses  came  plunging  round  the  corner  at  full  speed,  with  the  frag- 
ments of  a  carriage  rattling  and  ringing  after  them. 

"  The  child  !  the  child!  oh !  my  God,  the  poor  child  !"  shrieked 
a  woman  at  a  window  near  me ;  and  on  looking  that  way  I  saw  a 
child  in  the  street,  holding  out  its  arms  to  a  female  who  was  flying 
towards  it,  her  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  her  garments  flying  loose, 
and  her  cry  such  as  I  never  heard  issue  from  mortal  lips. 

I  sprang  forward  to  save  the  child — the  little  creature  was  right 
in  the  way  of  the  horses — and  I  should  have  succeeded  but  for  a 
strong  hand  that  arrested  me  and  pulled  me  back  by  main  force,  at 
the  very  instant  the  carriage  bounded  by  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust, 
overthrowing  mother  and  child  in  its  career. 

"  The  woman  !  the  woman  !"  shrieked  the  people,  far  and  wide, 

"  save  her,  save  her  !" 

At  this  new  cry,  the  man  who  had  held  me  back  with  the  hand  of  a 
giant,  flung  away  from  my  grasp,  and  pursuing  the  furious  animals 
round  the  next  corner,  where  they  had  been  partially  stopped  by  a 
wagon  loaded  with  flour,  and  stood  leaping  and  plunging  in  their 
harness,  and  trying  to  disengage  themselves  from  what  I  now  per- 
ceived to  be  a  human  being,  a  female  who  had  been  caught  by  her 
clothes  in  the  whirling  mass— leaped  upon  them  with  the  activity 
and  strength  of  one  who  might  grapple  with  centaurs  in  such  a  cause ; 
and  before  I  could  get  near  enough  to  help  him,  plucked  one  of  the 
hot  and  furious  animals  to  the  earth,  first  ujoon  his  knees,  and  then  over 
upon  his  side,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  deprive  the  other  of  all  power. 


152  THE    UTiLlTARIAN 

The  nest  moment  I  was  at  his  side,  leaving  the  poor  child  I  had 
enatched  up  k)  be  taken  care  of  by  a  stranger,  and  lifting  the  mo- 
ther of  the  child  from  the  midst  of  danger  so  appalling,  that  but 
for  the  example  set  me  by  my  companion,  I  never  should  have  had 
the  courage  to  interfere  even  to  save  what  now  appeared  to  be  one 
of  tlie  lovliest  women  I  had  ever  seen.  The  multitude  were  aghast 
with  fear ;  but  as  for  the  extraordinary  man  who  had  thrown  him- 
self head  foremost  upon  what  was  regarded,  by  everybody  there,  as 
no  better  than  certain  death,  he  got  up,  after  I  had  liberated  the 
woman,  brushed  off  the  dust  from  his  clothes,  and  would  have 
walked  away,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  I  do  believe,  had  I  not 
begged  him  to  go  with  me  where  we  might  see  after  the  child,  and 
examine  its  hurts ;  for  the  horses  appeared  to  me  to  touch  the  body 
with  their  hoofs,  and  I  was  quite  sure  that  a  wheel  struck  it  as  it 
bounded  by,  the  lire  flashing  from  the  rocky  pavement  at  every 
blow. 

The  child  was  very  much  hurt,  and  the  mother  delirious,  though 
in  every  other  respect  unharmed.  A  wheel  had.  passed  over  the 
little  creature's  body  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  no  hope  of  its  re- 
covery, though  I  instantly  bled  it  myself,  and  determined  to  watch 
by  it  to  the  last ;  and  the  mother  had  escaped  as  by  a  miracle,  with 
but  two  or  three  slight  lacerations,  though  it  appeared  upon  fuller 
inquiry,  that  she  had  run  directly  before  the  horses  with  a  view  to 
turn  them  aside,  there  being  no  other  hope,  and  that  she  had  been 
caught  by  the  projecting  shaft  and  lifted  along  at  the  risk,  every 
moment,  as  she  clung  by  the  bridle,  of  being  trampled  to  death. 
Bat  she  escaped  and  recovered;  and  the  poor  child,  who  was  just 
beginning  to  speak  plain,  was  now  the  sole  object  of  solicitude  with 
me. 

"  Chamber,  George  muss  die,  George  want  to  die,"  said  the  poor 
little  patient  thing,  after  it  had  lain  about  twenty-four  hours 
without  speaking  above  its  breath,  almost  without  moving 

The  nurse,  who  sat  near  him,  burst  into  tears ;  and  I,  even  I, 
though  accustomed  to  every  shape  of  trial  and  horror,  was  obliged 
to  go  to  the  window.  Her  name  was  Chambers,  and  the  child  had 
been  to  her  from  the  day  of  its  birth  even  to  that  day  as  her  own 
child. 

"  Chamber,  Gleorge  muss  dit  up,"  said  the  dear  little  creature 
again,  as  the  hour  drew  nigh  which  I  had  felt  it  my  duty  to  pre- 
pare the  mother  for.     "  George  muss  die,  George  want  to  die." 


THE    UTILITARIAN.  153 

i'or  the  first  time,  1  saw  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  that  imperturbable 
stranger  who  had  saved  the  mother's  life.  He  turned  away  from 
the  bed  with  a  shiver,  and  going  to  the  door,  spoke  to  the  nurse  in 
a  tone  of  considerable  emotion,  bidding  her  make  ready  for  the 
worst,  though  to  be  sure  he  had  still  some  hope. 

A  word  now  of  the  character  and  behavior  of  this  man,  before  I 
proceed  further  with  my  little  story.  I  had  met  him  about  a  month 
before  in  a  dissecting  room,  where  a  question  arose  about  the  struc- 
ture and  purpose  of  a  part  of  the  eye.  The  class  were  all  talking 
together ;  and  for  myself,  though  I  paid  great  attention  to  the  sub- 
ject, I  confess  I  was  never  so  bewildered  in  m-y  life.  In  the  midst 
of  the  uproar,  a  tall,  bony,  hard  visaged  man,  with  a  stoop  in  the 
shoulders,  and  the  largest  hand  I  ever  saw,  whipped  out  a  small 
pen-knife,  and,  taking  up  the  eye  of  a  fish  that  lay  near,  proceeded 
to  demonstrate  with  astonishing  clearness  and  beauty  of  language. 
While  occupied  in  this  way,  with  our  whole  class  gathered  round 
him,  and  listening  to  him  open-mouthed,  the  professor  entered  with- 
out being  observed,  and  coming  softly  before  the  new  lecturer,  stood 
there,  with  a  look  of  growing  delight  and  amazement  spreading  it- 
self over  his  features  and  agitating  his  whole  body,  as  the  awkward 
beinc-  before  us  proceeded  with  what  was  indeed  a  demonstration. 

After  he  had  got  through,  and  I  need  not  stop  here  to  describe 
the  scene  that  followed,  the  explanation  or  the  issue,  "tve  were  all 
inquiring  of  each  other  who  he  was,  and  where  he  had  come  from. 
But  all  we  could  hear  amounted  to  nothing.  He  had  been  at  Phila- 
delphia about  six  months.  He  had  travelled  much,  read  much, 
and  thought  more ;  he  was  learned  in  a  way  peculiarly  his  own ;  he 
was  indefatigable,  he  had  given  his  body  by  will  to  be  dissected  after 
death,  and  he  was  a  Utilitariari.  But  what  a  Utilitarian  was,  no- 
bodody  knew.  Some  believed  it  to  be  a  new  religious  faith,  whose 
followers  bore  that  name  ;  others  that  it  meant  either  a  sort  of  free- 
masonry or  infidelity.  But  he,  when  he  was  asked,  told  them  it  was 
nothing  but  Jeremy  Bennthamism.  But  wKc;  was  Jeremy  Ben- 
tham  ?     Nobody  knew,  at  least,  nobody  knew  with   any  degree  of 

certainty. 

"  Why  did  you  stop  me,"  said  I  to  him,  as  we  sat  together  by  an 
open  window,  looking  out  upon  the  sky  and  window  of  the  Jersey 
shore,  the  green  trees  and  the  far  hills,  and  wondering  about  the 
cause  of  that  peculiarity  in  the  atmosphere  which  attends  our  In- 
dian summer;  the  little  boy  on  a  bed  near  us,  breathing  though 


154  *  THE    UTILITARIAN. 

awake,  as  cliildren  breathe,  when  they  are  asleep,  and  the  mother — 
it  made  me  a  better  man  to  look  at  this  woman,  so  meek,  so  fair, 
with  such  a  calm,  beautiful  propriety  in  whatever  she  did ;  so  sin- 
cere withal,  and  so  affectionate  with  her  boy. 

"Why  did  you  stop  me,"  said  I,  looking  at  her  as  she  sat  afar 
off  with  her  large  hazel  eyes  fixed  on  the  little  sufferer,  and  a  drop 
of  unquenchable  brightness  gathering  in  each,  "  Why  did  you  stop 
me,  I  say  ?"  addressing  myself  to  Abijah  Ware. 

"  Because,"  quoth  Abijah,  in  a  deep,  low,  monotonous  whine, 
"  because  I  am  a  Utilitarian." 

"  A  what  ?" 

"  A  U-til-i-ta-ri-an,"  repeated  Abijah. 

The  woman  stared,  and  I  asked  what  he  meant. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Abijah,  "  a  follower  of  the  principle  of  utility.  I 
look  to  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number." 

"  I  am  all  in  the  dark,"  said  I ;  "  please  to  explain.  What  had 
utility,  or  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number  to  do  with  your 
stopping  me,  when,  but  for  you,  I  might  have — a — a — " 

"  Speak  out  sir,  what  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  said  I,  "if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  at  least, 
not  now,  not  here,"  glancing  at  the  poor  mother.  [N.  B.  She  was 
a  widow.] 

"  I  insist  upon  it,"  said  Abijah." 

"  Well,  but  for  you,  I  might  have  rescued  the  child." 

"  Perhaps,  and  you  might  have  thrown  away  another  life  to  no 
purpose." 

"  Well,  and  so  might  you,  when  you  risked  yours." 

"  Fiddle-faddle — one  case  at  a  time.     How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  How  old  am  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  out  with  it." 

I  made  no  reply. 

"  About  five  and  twenty  I  suppose ;  are  you  ?' 

"  Well,  what  if  I  am  ?  What  has  that  to  do  with  my  saving  or 
not  saving  the  child  ?" 

"  Much.  I  am  a  Utilitarian,  I  say.  You  are  grown  up ;  your 
life  is  worth  more  to  society  than — much  more,  I  say — " 

The  mother  stooped  to  kiss  the  forehead  of  her  litle  one. 

"  More  than  forty  such  lives." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  How  so  !     It  has  cost  some  thousands  to  raise  you." 


THE   UTILITARIAjS".  165 

I  looked  up.  The  man  was  perfectly  serious.  He  had  a  pencil 
in  his  hand,  a  bit  of  paper  on  the  table,  and  was  ciphering  away  at 
full  speed. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  he;  "the  risk  was  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  probable  advantage  or  profit ;  and  therefore  I  stopped  you." 

God  forgive  the  Utilitarians,  thought  I,  if  they  are  capable  of 
such  things  before  they  put  forth  a  hand  to  save  a  fellow  creature — 
a  babe  in  the  path  of  wild  horses.  For  my  own  part,  I  should  as 
soon  think  of  stopping  to  do  the  case  in  double  fellowship,  as  to 
calculate  the  proportion  of  the  risk  to  the  hope  of  profit  here. 

He  understood  me,  I  dare  say ;  for  he  shifted  his  endless  legs 
one  over  the  other,  drew  a  long  breath  and  quietly  laughed  in  my 
face, 

"  You  acted  like  a  boy,"  said  he;  "  the  chance — I  know  how  to 
calculate  such  chances  to  a  single  hair — was  fifty  to  one  against  your 
saving  the  child." 

"  Well,  sir—" 

"  And  fifty  to  one,  perhaps  more,  against  your  saving  yourself; 
and  so  I  concluded  to  save  you  in  spite  of  your  teeth." 

Here  a  low  hysterical  sobbing  was  heard  from  the  pillow  where 
the  mother  lay,  with  her  head  resting  by  that  of  her  child,  and  her 
mouth  pressed  to  his  cheek. 

But  my  imperturbable  companion  proceeded  :  "  The  truth  is,  my 
dear  sir,  that  you  were  never  made  for  a  hero  ;  you  are  not  strong 
enough,  nor"  I  might  say,"  leaning  forward,  to  peep  either  into  the 
widow's  eyes,  or  into  a  dressing  glass,  that  stood  near,  I  don't  know 
which,  ''  nor,  ugly  enough.  Had  you  not  kept  me  employed  in 
holding  you,  I  might  have  saved  the  child — poor  boy,  and  I  should." 

"  But  your  life  is  far  more  valuable  than  mine,"  said  I  with  a 
flourish  of  my  right  hand,  expecting  of  course  to  be  contradicted. 

"  True,  but  I  am  unfashionably  put  together;  I  am  older  than 
you,  and  my  name  is  Abijah." 

This  was  said  with  invincible  gravity,  though  followed  by  an- 
other glance  at  the  beautiful  widow. 

"  And  what  is  more,  the  risk  would  have  been  little  or  nothing 
for  me ;  to  you  it  would  have  been  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  I 
am  what  may  be  called  a  strong  man." 

"  A  hero,  therefore,"  said  I,  referring  to  his  remark  of  a  moment 
"before. 


156  THE    UTILITARIAN. 

''  I  miglit  liavc  been  a  hero,  perhaps,  for  my  hrothcr  Ezra  and  I, 
we  are  twins,  and  he  is  decidedly  a  hero." 

I  could  not  help  saying,  "  Do  you  resemble  each  other  ?" 

"  Very  much,  though  Ezra  is  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  By  the 
by,  I  must  give  you  a  little  anecdote  of  brother  Ezra.  One  day, 
as  he  turned  a  corner  in  Baltimore,  I  think  it  was,  a  man  met  him, 
who  made  a  full  stop  in  the  highway,  threw  up  his  hands  with  af- 
fected amazement  at  the  ungainly  creature  before  him — brother 
Ezra,  by  the  by,  is  not  the  handsomest  man  that  ever  was — and 
cried  out :  '  AYell,  by  George  !  if  you  arn't  the  ugliest  feller  ever  I 
clapped  eyes  on !'  At  which  our  Ezra,  instead  of  knocking  him 
head  over  heels,  as  any  body  but  a  hero  with  such  strength,  would 
have  done,  merely  said  to  him,  '  I  guess  you  never  saw  brother 
'Bijah.'" 

I  laughed  heartily  at  the  story :  and  yet  more  heartily  at  the 
look  of  Brother  'Bijah  as  he  told  it.  And  as  for  the  widow,  she 
appeared  for  a  moment  to  forget  her  boy,  her  poor  and  helpless  boy, 
in  her  anxiety  to  avoid  laughing  with  me. 

"■  But  you  risked  your  life,  sir,"  said  I,  ''  in  a  case  ten  thousand 
times  more  dangerous,  the  very  next  moment  after  you  had  inter- 
fered to  stop  me." 

"  True.     But  it  was  to  save  the  life  of  a  woman." 

"  Well,  but  why  a  woman,  if  you  would  not  suffer  me  to  save  a 
child." 

"  Because  I  was  a  Utilitarian  " 

"  Well,  but  what  does  that  prove  ?" 

"  You  shall  see.  Suppose  the  perfection  of  the  species  to  de- 
pend upon  a  certain  union  of  physical  and  intellectual  properties 
which  may  be  represented  by  x — ," 

*'  Nonsense  !  what  have  we  to  do  with  algebra  here." 

"  By  X I  say,  or  if  you  please,  if  you  prefer  arithmetic,  by  the  num- 
ber 100.  Now  youth  may  go  for  so  much,"  making  a  mark  on  the 
paper  before  him  ;  health  for  so  much,  making  another ;  beauty  for 
— let  me  see,  widow,  I  begin  to  have  some  hope  of  your  child." 

The  woman  started  upon  her  feet  and  stood,  with  her  eyes  lighted 
up,  her  cheek  flushed,  hands  locked  and  lifted,  waiting  for  him  to 
finish ;  but  he  only  looked  at  her  and  proceeded  with  the  calcula- 
tion. 

"  Beauty  for  so  much,  maturity  for  so  much ;  and  valor,  wisdom, 


THE    UTILITARIAN. 


157 


courage,  virtue,— widow,  you  may  sit  down— for  all  the  rest  say  85. 
Now  when  I  see  such  a  being,  whether  male  or  female,  though  sex 
may  be  put  down  for  something  here,  about  to  throw  herself  or  him- 
self away,  I  instantly  subtract  the  sum  at  which  I  have  estimated 
myself,  tliat  is,  between  63  and  G4,  as  you  may  see  by  this  paper," 
handing  me  his  pocket  book,  where  the  calculation  stood  on  the  first 
page,  "  from  the  sum  of  one  hundred  or  less,  according  to  the  value 
of  the  object,  and  if  I  am  satisfied  that  the  risk  is  a  fair  one,  the 
probabilities  not  more  than  enough  to  outweigh  the  certain^  profit 
of  saving  a  life  so  much  more  valuable  than  my  own,  I  save  it." 

"  I  understand  nothing  of  your  theory,"  said  I,  "  and  as  little  of 
your  calculation.  But  this  I  do  understand,  this  I  know,  that  you 
have  encountered  a  risk  for  the  safety  of  that  woman  there  which 
I  never  saw,  never  hope  to  see,  voluntarily  encountered  by  any 
human  being  for  the  safety  of  another." 

"  That  will  depend  upon  the  progress  of  our  faith.  If  Utilita- 
rians multiply,  such  things  will  be  common." 

I  was  just  going  to  cry,  Pho !  but  I  forbore,  and  at  the  cost  of 

a  sore  lip  for  a  week. 

*'  And  now,"  said  he,  getting  up  and  going  to  the  child  which  had 
just  waked  from  a  sweet  sleep,  and  feeling  its  pulse,  "  I  think  I 
may  say  to  you  now,  widow  Roberts— I  think,  I  say,  but  I  would 
not  have  you  too  sure— I  think  your  child  is  safe." 

The  woman  caught  his  huge  hand  up  to  her  mouth  before  he  could 
prevent  it,  and  fell  upon  her  knees  and  wept  and  sobbed  as  if  her 
heart  would  break ;  and  the  child,  putting  out  both  its  little  fat 
hands,  kept  patting  her  on  the  head,  and  saying,  "  Poor  mutter  ky ; 
George  moss  well  now,  tonny  ky,  mutter.' 

My  hero  withdrew  his  hand,  I  thought  with  considerable  emo- 
tion, kissed  the  child,  made  a  sweep  at  me,  in  the  form  of  a  bow, 
and 'walked  straightway  out  of  the  room  without  opening  his  mouth. 
He  was  no  sooner  off  than  the  nurse  entered,  and  we  exammed 
the  child.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  surprising  alteration  for  the 
better.  He  breathed  freely,  the  stupor  had  passed  off,  and  his  eyes 
were  clear  as  crystal.  But  then-who  should  say  ?~death  might 
be  at  work  in  them  nevertheless. 

Let  me  pass  over  the  following  four  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which 
period  I  thought  proper  to  hold  counsel  with  my  friend  theLtilita- 
rian,  about  the  safety  and  propriety  of  marrying  a  ^i^^^^'    - 
"  You  merely  suppose  the  case  for  argument  sake  ?"  said  he. 


158  THE    UTILITARIAN. 

''To  be  sure,"  said  I. 

"  AVhat  if  you  suppose  a  cliild  or  so  into  the  bargain  ?"  said  be. 

''  "Why,  as  to  that,"  said  I,  with  somewhat  of  a  sheepish  look  I 
fear,  "  as  to  that  now,  I  should'nt  care  much  if— 

"  A  boy  ?"  said  he  interrupting  me. 

''  I  wish  the  brat  was  out  of  the  way,"  said  I,  with  a  fling. 

"  No  you  don't,"  said  he;  "  it  would  be  a  dead  loss  to  you." 

I  pretended  to  be  in  a  huff. 

"  Come,  come  Joseph,  let  us  cut  the  matter  short.  Away  with 
all  your  pros  and  cons^  your  theories  and  supposable  cases.  You 
love  the  widow,  don't  you." 

"  I  do." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  her  history  ?" 

'<  Not  a  syllable." 

"  Of  her  situation  and  character  ?  " 

"  Nothing — perhaps  you  do." 

"  I  do,  enough  to  satisfy  me.  She  is  young,  healthy,  virtuous 
and  beautiful,  with  one  child — " 

"  Hang  the  child,  Abijah." 

"  Joseph,  you  are  wrong,  that  child  would  be  a  comfort  to  you." 

"  To  me." 

"  Yes,  to  you,  if  you  marry  the  widow.  What  are  you  rubbing 
your  hands  for  ?" 

"  Marry  the  widow,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  I  with 
a  flutter  of  joy  and  a  thrill  at  the  very  idea,  which  I  cannot  attempt 
to  describe. 

"  Hear  me  through,  Joseph.  You  have  come  to  ask  me  what  I 
would  do  in  your  case." 

"  You  are  right,  X  have." 

"Well,  were  I  you,  I  would  marry  her." 

"  But  why  don't  you  marry  her  yourself?" 

''  I !    For  three  reasons." 

"  What  are  they." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  you." 

ii  Good—the  next  ? 

"  In  the  next  place,  she  would  not  have  me." 

"  Pho  !"  said  I ;  though  to  tell  you  the  truth,  reader,  I  thought 
as  he  did,  notwithstanding  the  beautiful  widow  was  forever  sounding 
iRg  his  praises  to  me  whenever  we  were  alone  together.  But  I  could 
always  see  a  good  way  into  a  mill-stone ;  and  whether  she  romped  with 


THE    UTILITARIAN.  1^^ 


her  boy  before  me,  lia'f  smotbering  bim  witb  kisses,  or  talked  of  ber 
preserver,  tbat  beroic  man— tbat  beroic  Abijab,  I  longed  to  say, 
but  I  was  afraid,  tbere  was  no  laugbing  at  sucb  a  man  before  sucba 
woman — I  could  see  tbrougb  tbe  wbole. 

"  But  in  tbe  tbird  place  ?"  continued  I. 

"  ^Yell,  in  tbe  tbird  place,  I  am  not  wortby  of  ber." 

<'  How  so  ?" 

^'  But  you  are,  my  friend"— bis  ricb,  bold  voice  quivered  bere, 
and  I  began  to  feerratber  dismal— "  y^i^  are;  and  my  advice  to 
you  is— but  stop.     Are  you  not  already  married  ?" 

I  lauebed  and  sbook  my  bead. 

"  Very  well,  tben  I  advise  you  to  lose  no  time  in  securing  tbat 
woman.  You  deserve  ber;  you  are  young  and  bandsome,  bealtby 
and  ricb.     Take  ber  and  save  ber." 

"Save  ber  !  wbat  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Save  ber  from  growing  old,  wbere  it  is  not  safe— I  speak  freely 
to  you— for  any  sucb  woman  to  live.  Sbe  is  poor,  sbe  is  proud, 
Bbe  is  far  away  from  all  tbat  know  her." 

<'  Wby  !  you  appear  to  be  acquainted  with  ber  history." 

»  No,  I  am  ignorant  of  ber  history  ;  I  know  nothing  of  her  be- 
yond wbat  you  and  I  have  gathered  from  our  five  or  six  weeks'  ac- 
quaintance with  ber  at  the  bedside  of  her  boy." 

"  But  you  know  my  family ;  and  tbat,  as  a  prudent  man,  it  will 
be  my  duty  to  inquire  into  her  history ;  tbat  is— you  understand 
me— provided  such  a  thing  should  ever  enter  my  bead  as  to—" 

"  Fiddle  de  dee  !  Go  to  her  and  ask  wbat  she  is  good  for,  and 
whether  sbe  is  any  better  than  she  should  be." 


"Sir 


?) 


"  There  now  !  that's  the  way  with  all  you  sentimentalists.  You 
talk,  and  you  talk,  and  you  talk,  without  ever  coming  to  tbe  point. 
You  deceive  yourselves  and  others  by  the  most  roundabout  and 
beautiful  language  in  the  world  ;  but  the  moment  you  have  it  trans- 
lated  for  you,  put  into  your  mother  tongue  by  a  thorougbred  L'tili- 
tarian,  your  blood  is  up,  and  your  sensibilities,  as  you  call  them, 
are  outraged.     I  have  only  said,  what  you  meant." 

«  I  understand  you.    Let  us  deal  plainly  with  each  other.    ^  bat 

would  you  have  me  do  ?" 

"  I  would  have  you  behave  like  a  man.  I  would  have  you  go  to 
tbe  beautiful  widow,  and  offer  yourself  to  ber;  and  if  she  is  the 
woman  I  take  her  to  be,  that  will  be  enough  to  bring  out  as  much 


IGO  TUE    UTILITARIAN. 

of  her  hibtory  and  cliaractcr  as  you  will  have  any  desire  to  know. 
There,  there — go  and  heaven  speed  you." 

I  went.  I  offered  myself  to  the  widow,  and  was  flatly,  though 
kindly,  refused.  That  was  about  as  much  as  I  could  well  stomach, 
and  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  ever  got  over  it,  but  for  a 
little  gratuitous  intelligence  of  a  nature  to  make  me  almost  thank- 
ful for  my  disappointment.  The  widow  was  no  widow.  The  child 
was  a  thing,  with  all  its  beauty  for  the  mother  to  be  ashamed  of. 

I  went  straightway  to  my  hero.  "  Abijah  Ware,"  said  I,  "  such 
and  such  are  the  facts,"  relating  the  whole. 

"  And  how  did  you  learn  all  this  ?"  asked  Abijah. 

"Out  of  her  own  mouth,"  said  I. 

"  And  what  have  you  concluded  to  do,  Joseph  ?" 

"  To  give  her  up." 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Joseph." 

"  How  so?  you  would  not  have  me — " 

''  Yes,  I  would,"  interrupting  me.  "  Where  will  you  find  such 
another  woman  ?  a  woman  of  such  exalted  virtue  ?" 

"  Virtue  !"  said  I. 

"  Was  that  a  sneer?"  said  Abijah,  and  his  lips  opened  and  shut 
like  those  of  children  who  are  learning  to  say  apple-pie,  papa,  or 
puppy. 

"  It  was,"  I  cried,  lifting  my  voice  and  braving  the  look  with 
which  the  inquiry  was  made,  as  if  what  I  felt,  were  a  thing  to  brag 
of. 

"  Then,"  said  Abijah,  "  then  you  never  loved  her.  You  would 
weep  sooner  than  sneer  at  such  virtue,  if  you  ever  had." 

"  But  I  did  love  her." 

"  You  did?   then  there  is  but  one  other  hypothesis  for  me." 

"  Well,  out  with  it." 

"  She  has  refused  you." 

I  fell  back  abashed ;  I  dropped  my  eyes ;  I  could  not  bear  the 
solemn,  overpowering  reproach  of  his. 

"  Very  true,"  said  I. 

"  One  word  more.  Did  you  offer  yourself  to  her  after  she  told 
you  this  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  ask  it  for  your  sake ;  for  yours,  my  dear  friend.  I  long  to 
have  you  one  of  us ;  but  I  fear  you  want  the  courage.  It  requires 
prodigious  manhood  to  be  a  Uti]  tarian." 


THE     UTILITARIAN.  151 

"  AYeil,  be  it  so,  I  did  not  offer  myself  after  this ;  but  I  did  be- 
fore." 

''  I  pity  you.  How  you  have  rewarded  her  candor,  how  gloriously 
you  have  repaid  her  truth  !  She  might  have  deceived  you,  but  she 
forbore;  she  told  you  the  truth,  and  you  forsook  her.  She  proved 
herself  worthy  of  you,  and  you  abandoned  her  accordingly.' 

His  emotion  surprised  me.  He  got  up,  and  walked  the  floor  with 
a  tread  that  shook  the  whole  house. 

"  You  do  not  understand  the  matter,"  said  I.  "  She  refused 
me  before  I  knew  this,  and  told  me  her  story  afterwards,  not  so 
much  as  a  reason  for  it,  I  do  believe,  as  to  convince  me  of  what 
she  called  her  good  faith,  respect,  and  gratitude." 

"  Young  man,"  said  Abijah  Ware,  "  you  are  throwing  away  that 
which  would  be  of  more  worth  to  me,  and  to  you,  if  you  were  a 
Utilitarian  instead  of  a  sentimentalist,  than  the  great  globe  itself, 
though  it  were  a  solid  chrysolite.  I  beseech  you,  once  for  all,  I 
pray  you,  I  implore  you  to  reconsider  this  matter." 

"  Impossible,"  said  I.     "  Think  of  the  usages  of  the  world." 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  the  usages  of  the  world  ?" 

"  Ay,  but  the  prejudices  of  society." 

"  True,  prejudices  and  usages  are  all  to  be  weighed.  Look  to 
what  you  gain,  as  well  as  what  you  lose,  by  running  counter  to  them, 
and  whatever  they  are,  and  whether  well  or  ill-founded,  act  ac- 
cordingly. That  is  the  part  of  a  wise  man.  But  enough,  will  you 
think  better  of  this  ?     Will  you  not  try  to  recover  that  woman  ?" 

"  I  dare  not.  We  should  be  miserable.  Hereafter,  were  we 
thrown  abroad  into  society,  every  little  neglect,  every  trifle,  which 
if  her  history  were  untainted,  would  be  laughed  at,  or  pitied,  or 
overlooked,  would  be  to  her  peace  and  to  mine  like  the  bite  of  a 
rattlesnake." 

"  Very  true,  but  still,  still,  my  friend — " 

"Why  do  you  urge  me?  Even  you  yourself,  were  you  in  my 
case,  would  not  be  able  to  throw  off  the  prejudice  you  complain  of.* 

'•  We  shall  see.     Do  you  give  her  up  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  You  will  not  marry  her  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  Then,  by  Heaven,  I  will !" 

"  You !"  said  I,  with  what  I  meant  for  a  most  withering  sneer 
though  to  tell  the  truth,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  her  praises, 


162  THE    UTILITARIAN. 

and  of  tliat  summer  afternoon  at  the  bedside  of  her  boy — the  little 
wretch,  he  is  alive  now — when  she  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and 
wept  upon  his  great  ugly  three-decker  of  a;  hand. 

"  At  least,"  cried  he,  "  I  will  offer  myself  to  her  before  I  sleep* 
and  if  she  refuses  me — " 

<'If!  said  I." 

"  I  will  make  her  independent  for  life." 

''  I  congratulate  her,"  said  I.  "  Her  wealth  may  hereafter  make 
her  a  desirable  match." 

He  growled,  and  I — I  out  and  run. 

P.  S.  He  kept  his  word.  He  offered  himself  and  the  great 
steam  engine  of  a  fellow  is  now  the  husband  of  the  fair  widow.  I 
often  see  him  lumbering  along  to  church  with  the  beautiful  Mary 
Koberts — I  never  mean  to  call  her  Mary  Ware  while  I  breathe — 
dangling  at  his  elbow,  like  a — like  a — like  a  rose  on  a  patch  of 
thistle  and  furze — adrift. 


»  >  ♦  •  ♦ 


THE    WIFE 


How  sweet  to  the  soul  of  man  (says  Hieroeles)  is  the  society  of  a 
beloved  wife,when  wearied  and  broken  down  by  the  labors  of  the 
day,  her  endearments  soothe,  her  tender  cares  restore  him.  The 
solicitude  and  the  anxieties,  and  the  heaviest  misfortunes  of  life  are 
hardly  to  be  borne  by  him  who  has  the  weight  of  business  and  do- 
mestic cares  at  the  same  time  to  contend  with.  But  how  much 
lighter  do  they  seem,  when  after  his  necessary  avocations  are  over, 
he  returns  to  his  home,  and  finds  there  a  partner  of  all  his  griefi 
and  troubles,  who  takes  for  his  sake  her  share  of  domestic  labors 
upon  her,  and  soothes  the  anguish  of  his  anticipation.  A  wife  is 
not  as  she  is  falsely  represented  and  esteemed  by  some,  a  burden 
or  a  sorrow  to  man.  No ;  she  shares  his  burdens,  and  she  alle- 
viates his  sorrows ;  for  there  is  no  difficulty  so  heavy  or  insupport- 
able in  life,  but  it  may  be  surmounted  by  the  mutual  labors  and 
the  affectionate  concord  of  that  holy  partnership. 


THE    CHANaES    OF    LIFE. 


BY    MRS.    EMELINE    S.    SMITH. 


*^  Mutability  "  is  written  with  the  iron  pen  of  Fate  upon  all  the 
joys  of  human  life.  We  revel  for  a  time  in  the  frolic  pleasures  of 
childhood,  and  pluck  with  wasteful  hands  the  beautiful  blossoms  of 
that  bright  season  of  existence.  We  range  the  garden  of  life,  free 
and  happy  as  the  butterfly  of  summer,  basking  in  every  sunbeam, 
and  sipping  fragrance  from  every  flower.  We  think  not  of  change, 
we  dream  not  that  the  light  will  ever  grow  dim,  or  the  flowers  fade. 
"We  are  only  conscious  of  the  glory  of  the  present,  and  breathe  the 
atmosphere  of  unalloyed  delight. 

•  But  soon  we  enter  upon  the  fairy  land  of  youth,  and  every  sur- 
rounding object  wears  an  altered  aspect.  The  sunbeams  and  the 
flowers  have  yet  their  earlier  brightness,  but  there  is  a  dream-like 
beauty,  a  mystic  loveliness  upon  the  landscape  that  seems  to  fore- 
toll  a  change.  The  siren  Hope  still,  attends  us,  her  whispers  of  the 
future  and  her  promises  of  bliss  are  more  dear  to  the  heart  than 
ever.  By  her  side  is  a  being  of  surpassing  beauty,  who  was  a  stran- 
ger to  us  in  the  days  of  childhood,  but  who  becomes  a  constant 
companion  in  the  season  of  youth.  Her  name  is  Love.  Her  face 
is  radiant  with  an  indescribable  and  peculiar  charm,  and  her  form 
is  clothed  in  the  wild  and  witching  garb  of  romance.  She  fascinates 
the  heart  with  the  mysterious  melody  of  her  voice,  and  stirs  in  the 
inmost  recesses  of  the  soul,  feelings  of  delight  unknown  before.  She 
awakens  in  the  mind  fairy  dreams  and  visions,  which  partake  of  the 
brightness  of  heaven,  and  lend  existence  attributes  that  make  it 
appear  a  paradise. 

Thus  with  Hope  and  Love  on  either  hand,  showering  their  pre- 
cious gifts  profusely  upon  our  pathway,  need  we  marvel  that  the 
beautiful  spring-time  of  youth  is  past  long  ere  we  are  prepared  for 
its  departure  ?  The  change  comes  upon  us  like  the  sudden  burst 
of  a  tempest  upon  the  beauties  of  a  summer  landscape.  We 
are  startled  from  the  reveries  of  bliss  by  a  sudden  gloom.     The 


164  THE    CHANGES    OF    LIFE. 

storm-cloud  of  grief  is  above  us,  darlmess  gatliering  around,  and 
^ye  await,  in  trembling  anxiety,  the  approach  of  wo.  ^Ye  have  en- 
tered upon  the  region  of  middle  life,  and  what  a  change  is  here  • 
The  sunbeams  are  cold  and  dim.  The  flowers  have  lost  their  fra- 
grance ;  Hope  has  hushed  her  heaven-bom  minstrelsy  for  ever ;  and 
Love,  the  beautiful  enchantress  of  the  scene,  has  fled,  or  stands  be- 
side us,  so  changed  that  we  know  her  not ! 

Yet  the  sober  season  of  middle  life  is  not  without  its  charms, 
though  the  eye,  yet  dazzled  by  the  brightness  of  by-gone  joys,  is 
lonf  in  discovering  their  existence.  The  dewy  freshness  and  un- 
clouded brilliancy  of  morning  have  vanished  forever  from  the  land- 
scape, yet  some  of  its  beauties  still  remain.  A  few  frail,  delicate 
blossoms  of  happiness  linger  here  and  there,  like  pale,  sweet  autumn 
flowers  surviving  the  genial  days  of  summer  to  cheer  the  heart  amid 
the  gloom  and  desolation  of  decay.  How  fondly  the  spirit  clings 
to  these  last  lingering  relics  of  departed  joy  !  As  a  fond  mother, 
who  has  watched  one  by  one  the  passing  away  of  her  children,  bends 
at  length  in  timid  hope  and  trembling  idolization  over  the  sole  re- 
maining object  of  her  love,  so  does  the  human  heart  bend  over  the 
last  dear  remnants  of  its  earlier  treasures.  But  these  too  must 
pass  away.  Time  sweeps  by  in  his  rapid  march,  and  crushes  under 
his  mighty  footstep  the  last,  the  frailest  and  most  foudly  cherished 
blossoms  of  human  joy. 

Then  we  look  around  and  find  our  trembling  footsteps  treading 
the  dreary  pathway  of  age.  All  the  light,  and  warmth,  and  beauty 
of  life's  summer  morning  has  fled.  Cold  and  keen  is  the  blast  of 
disappointment  that  sweeps  around  our  path ;  dark  and  threatening 
the  clouds  of  care  that  frown  upon  our  way.  We  are  like  way-worn 
and  weary  travelers,  who,  after  toiling  through  a  long  pilgrimage, 
find  themselves  at  last  in  a  barren  desert,  where  desolation  frowns 
on  either  hand,  and  destruction  awaits  them  at  every  step. 

We  turn  our  gaze  back  upon  the  past  to  look  for  the  pleasant  land 
of  youth ;  but  it  is  far,  far  away  in  the  distance,  with  the  shadowy 
mist  of  years  veiling  it  for  ever  from  our  tearful  eyes.  We  look 
forward  to  the  future,  but  all  is  a  wide  waste  of  dreary  monotony. 
We  desire  not  to  travel  farther,  the  footstep  falters,  the  spirit  faints, 
■and  the  pilgrim  of  life  awaits  the  coming  of  death,  and  hails  him 
as  a  friend  who  is  to  relieve  him  from  a  burden  that  he  is  unable 
longer  to  support. 


MARY    WARREN. 


"  A  thing  of  feelings." 

"A  GOOD  matcli!" — There  is  no  term  in  our  language  I  dislike 
more  than  this — its  obvious  meaning  is  so  foreign  to  the  reality. 
It  is  mere  prejudice,  and,  like  most  prejudices,  founded  on  associa- 
tion, that  mysterious  chain  which  connects  scenes  the  most  various 
and  objects  the  most  unlike.  This  term,  so  often  used  and  so  little 
understood,  ever  brings  to  my  mind  the  sweet  form  and  the  sad  fate 
of  Mary  Warren.  We  were  friends — yes,  truly  friends — for  it 
was  before  the  period  of  life  when  friendships  were  formed  from 
motives  of  interest,  and  before  the  period,  too,  when  envy,  rivalry 
and  deception — those  serpent-like  intruders,  steal  in  upon  the  Eden 
of  social  union  and  mar  with  their  secret  whispers  the  last,  the  only 
Paradise  on  earth.  How  deeply  is  her  form  impressed  on  my 
memory.  I  see  her  now  as  she  looked  the  first  day  she  joined  our 
school,  when  a  mere  child.  Her  light  brown  hair  parted  so  smoothly 
on  her  forehead,  her  blue  eyes  bent  constantly  on  her  book, — more 
from  timidity  than  love  of  study — the  plain  pink  gingham  frock  and 
white  sun-bonnet  she  wore,  making  her  the  very  picture  of  neatness 
and  innocence.  She  was  a  stranger  in  the  school,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  her  countenance,  as,  during  recess,  she  timidly  joined  my  side, 
and  placed  her  hand  in  mine.  The  expression  of  her  eye  was  so 
full  of  innocent  eloquence,  there  was  something  so  confiding  in  this 
trifling  act,  that  I  loved  her  from  that  moment.  Often,  when  my 
childish  imagination  has  wandered  to  the  realms  of  the  blest,  has  it 
pictured  a  land  where  all  would  take  me  by  the  hand,  like  Mary, 
and  where  I  should  feel  toward  all,  that  immediate  affection  I  then, 
did  to  her.  And  oh  !  how  often,  in  later  years,  have  I  wished  that 
I  could  cast  aside  the  warnings  of  suspicious  Experience,  and  the 
cold-hearted  reasonings  of  Philosophy,  and  once  more  look  on  any 
being  with  the  undistrusting  confidence  I  did  on  her  at  that 
moment. 

It  is  rare  that  friendships  formed  thus  early,  continue  beyond 
childhood.     They  are  spring  flowers,  that  bloom  in  our  path,  are 


1G6  MARY    WARREN. 

supplanted  by  others,  or  wither  beneath  the  summer's  sun.  But 
when  they  do,  there  is  a  confidence — a  disinterestedness  we  seldom 
feel  towards  those  we  meet  in  after  days.  It  was  thus  with  ours. 
Though  time  brought  changes  to  the  person  and  prospects  of  each, 
it  brought  none  to  our  hearts. 

Mary  Warren  seemed  formed  of  nature's  porcelain ;  yet  few 
would  have  called  her  beautiful.  Hers  was  not  the  beauty  to  arrest 
the  passing  eye  by  its  splendor,  or  attract  admiration  by  its  spright- 
liness.  Like  the  lowly  pink  of  her  little  garden,  you  might  pass 
her  by,  among  far  more  common,  though  gayer  flowers;  yet  when 
you  did  perceive  her,  you  wondered  that  her  modest  loveliness  had 
escaped  your  eye.  She  was  one  of  those  beings  we  seldom  meet, 
and  seldom  forget — one  of  those,  that,  by  a  melancholy  association, 
ever  reminds  me  of  consumption.  In  her  heart,  Love,  Friendship, 
and  Religion  dwelt  with  the  purity  of  Heaven — like  rainbow  hues, 
blended,  yet  unmingled  with  any  darker  shades  of  earthly  passion. 
She  looked  on  the  earth — she  saw  that  it  was  good,  and  she  loved 
everything  that  belonged  to  it.  Not  a  bird  breathed  his  notes  on 
her  ear  unheeded, — not  a  flower  bloomed  unnoticed  in  her  path,  for 
her  spirit  had  communion  with  every  sweet  sound  and  every  fair 
sight  in  creation.  In  the  solitude  of  Nature  there  was  a  sympathy 
with  her  deep  and  quiet  feelings,  and  how  often  when  the  hearts  of 
our  lighter  companions  were  bounding  beneath  the  exhilarating 
influence  of  spring,  their  merriment  bursting  forth  in  the  light  frolic, 
and  the  merry  laugh,  till  the  woods  and  hills  echoed  back  the  sound, 
have  I  found  her  withdrawn  from  among  them,  in  some  lonely  spot, 
gazing  into  the  depths  of  the  passing  stream  and  listening  to  the 
gushing  melody  of  spring,  till  her  tears  mingled  with  the  waters, 
and  her  very  eyes  spoke  poetry.  This  was  ever  her  happiness,  and 
she  sought  these  scenes — not  as  the  gloomy  misanthrope  flies  from 
his  hated  kind,  to  nurse  in  solitude  his  wrath  against  human  frailty; 
but  as  one  gazes  on  the  countenance  of  an  infant — to  behold  how 
fair  is  nature  in  her  innocence,  ere  the  hand  of  cultivation  has  made 
or  marred  a  single  beauty.  The  retirement  of  a  home  situated  in 
one  of  the  loveliest  spots  I  ever  knew,  gave  birth  to  a  thousand 
enthusiastic  dreams ;  books,  selected  more  from  a  refined,  romantic 
taste,  than  a  cool,  judging  reason,  fostered  the  illusions,  and  her 
imagination  dwelt  on  them  until  they  became  realities,  and  she  a 
pure,  though  fond  enthusiast — with  as  little  true  knowledge  of  this 
every-day  world  of  ours,  as  an  inhabitant  of  the  stars  she  adored, 


MARY    WARREN.  167 

and  as  little  fitted  to  live  in  it,  as  the  exotic  of  tlie  tropics  to  bear 
the  cold  storms  of  the  North. 

Time  passed  on,  and  it  would  have  been  strange  indeed,  if  a 
heart  like  hers  had  not  found  an  object  more  worthy  its  affection 
than  inanimate  creation.  It  did — and  her  love  for  "Wcntworth 
Eldridge  was  the  same  deep,  chaste  affection  she  had  hitherto  lavished 
on  the  world  at  large,  now  concentrated  on  one  object.  He  was 
calculated  to  make  an  impression  on  a  mind  like  hers.  A  student 
at  the  neighboring  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover — pleasing, 
amiable  and  talented — and  preparing  to  leave  home,  friends  and  kin- 
dred, and  devote  his  education  and  talents  to  spreading  glad  tidings 
of  Religion  iu  the  wilderness  of  the  west.  He  proffered  her  his 
hand,  his  heart — but  a  home  wherever  a  guiding  Providence  should 
direct — a  resting  place  among  the  wild  natives  of  the  forest.  Duty 
to  her  parents,  and  the  thousand  ties  that  bound  her  to  her  child- 
hood's home,  urged  her  to  remain — and  should  she  leav^  all  these 
for  a  stranger  and  a  strange  land  ?  "A  wilderness  and  thee,"  were 
the  words  she  would  have  spoken,  but  friends,  cool,  considerate 
friends,  interposed.  "With  no  treasure  but  his  education,  no  ambi- 
tion but  to  serve  the  good  cause  to  which  he  had  pledged  himself, 
no  hope  of  wordly  reward  or  applause,  he  had  few  recommendations 
in  their  eyes.  It  was  not  "  a  good  match."  They  counselled,  they 
reasoned,  they  entreated — passiveness  was  the  foible  of  her  charac- 
ter— she  saw  him  depart  alone  and  forever.  Forever !  how  much 
agony  does  that  one  word  add  to  the  parting  hour  of  those  who  love. 
It  is  the  knell  of  departed  happiness — the  word  that  brings  to  death 
its  most  poignant  pang,  and  to  young  life  its  bitterest  anguish. 
Let  there  be  but  a  period  to  meet  again — however  distant  it  may 
be — that  moment  becomes  a  definite  something  to  which  to  look  for- 
ward— a  guiding  star  to  hope.  This  forever,  is  the  "gloomy  mid- 
night of  despair,"  which  has  wrecked  many  a  fair  bark,  and  much 
did  I  fear  for  Mary.  Wentworth  Eldridge  had  been  to  her  quiet 
existence,  what  the  rising  sun  is  to  the  landscape  of  a  calm  summer 
morning — the  light  that  was  life  and  animation — and  that  moment 
of  passionate  parting  came  like  the  tempest,  blasting  all  the  opening 
flowers  of  hope.  Hers  was  disappointed  love,  but  it  had  not  that 
bitter  repining,  that  humiliating  sorrovv,  which  corrodes  the  heart 
whose  best  affections  have  been  sported  with,  made  the  amusement 
of  a  brief  hour,  and  then  rejected  as  worthless.  Their  parting  had 
been  in  a  degree  voluntary.     She  knew  that  his  love  had  been 


168  MARY    WARREN. 

sincere,  and  there  was  a  pleasure  in  knowing  thit  that  softened  the 
anguish  of  separation.  Still — still,  they  had  loved — they  had 
anticipated — they  had  parted,  and  though  the  tempest  v/as  past, 
despondency  still  hung  like  a  lingering  cloud  over  her.  The  scenes 
that  had  ever  been  as  companions  to  her  were  now  doubly  dear — 
his  presence  had  consecrated  them — and  in  them,  alone,  but  not 
lonely,  was  it  a  relief  to  indulge  in  the  undisturbed  luxury  of  ten- 
der recollections — ^to  dwell  upon  each  treasured  word  of  love  and 
kindness — to  live  for  awhile  in  the  dreams  of  memory,  and  wake 
from  them  to  weep  o'er  the  fond  illusion.  But  the  sorrow  which 
ca7i  find  relief  in  the  beautiful  things  of  creation,  is  not  the  sorrow 
which  burns  in  the  heart,  a  living  fire,  withering  joy  and  consuming 
life.  Hers  was  that  which  tears  quench  and  time  soothes,  till  by 
degrees  it  ceases  to  be  ever  present,  and  is  numbered  with  the  past. 
Memory  blends  it  with  the  shades  of  previous  darkness — ^but  be- 
comes a  mingled  light  and  shadow,  melting  insensibly  to  each  other, 
till  both 


''Hopes  and  sorrows  seem, 

But  as  tlie  moonlight  pictures  of  a  dream." 

This  is  not  a  change  to  be  wrought  by  a  moment.  Seek  quick  for- 
getfulness  in  the  splendid  amusements  of  the  world — in  the  accumu- 
lated treasures  of  knowledge — ask  it  of  the  beings  of  earth,  or  like 
Manfred,  of  the  spirits  of  the  air,  and  your  search  is  fruitless  as 
the  visionary  alchymist ;  but  trust  to  time,  and  the  changing  ele- 
ments of  mind  soon  bestow  what  you  so  vainly  sought.  She  sought 
it  not — but  ere  many  months  had  passed,  I  saw  in  her  placid  eye 
that  the  very  indulgence  of  grief  had  blunted  its  keenness,  and  that 
time  had  already  begun  its  healing  work. 

At  this  period,  circumstances  forced  me  to  leave  her.  A  twelve- 
month passed  before  I  returned.  My  first  enquiries  were  for  her, 
and  I  learned  that  she  was  married  to  one  of  the  wealthiest  and 
most  respectable  young  men  in  the  county,  "  well  and  happily." 
How  strangely  did  those  words  strike  my  ear  !  The  romance  of  her 
own  character  had  doubtless  influenced  my  opinion,  for  I  always 
looked  on  her  as  a  creature  of  holier  feelings  than  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  that  she  could  have  married  Marcus  Porter  seemed  im- 
possible. She  could  not  love  him — and  had  she,  the  child  of  purity, 
entered  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony  for  his  wealth!  At  that 
mcment,  I  would  have  classed  the  whole  world  under  one  head  and 


MARY    WAPwREN.  169 

exclaimed,  "there  is  not  one  among  this  mass  of  animated  claj, 
that  is  not  ruled  by  the  dross  gathered  from  the  same  earth  from 
which  he  springs,  and  to  which  he  returns !" 

I  had  known  Marcus  Porter  from  mv  childhood,  as  one  of  those 
persons  exactly  fitted  by  mind  and  education,  to  guide  his  bark 
peaceably  through  this  tumultuous  ocean  of  life.  Honest  to  the 
very  letter  of  the  law,  rigidly  strict  with  regard  to  morals — when 
they  interfered  not  with  his  more  wordly  interests,  too  prudent  in 
conduct  to  afford  calumny  even  a  fastening  whereby  to  weave  her 
web  of  wiles ;  too  cool  and  considerate  to  be  blown  about  by  the 
gales  of  passion,  his  course  had  been  as  direct  and  steady  as  the 
passage  of  a  canal  boat.  He  excited  no  man's  envy  by  his  superior 
talents  or  acquirements ;  he  called  no  man  master ;  he  flattered  no 
man  for  popularity;  he  gained  his  wealth  by  means  which  the 
most  scrupulous  could  not  censure,  and  he  preserved  it  by  an  econ- 
omy er|ually  removed  from  liberal  extravagance  and  miserly  niggard- 
ness.  Without  one  shining  virtue  or  one  startling  vice,  he  was,  at 
thirty-five,  a  man  whom  all,  as  by  universal  consent,  agreed  in  com- 
mendino-.  At  this  age,  as  his  affairs  began  to  assume  a  settled,  good 
appearance,  and  his  comforts  to  increase  around  him,  he  looked 
about,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  to  obtain  the  crown  of  Solomon,, 
"a  virtuous  woman."  The  fear  of  being  governed,  or  in  any  way 
"  managed  "  by  a  wife,  made  him  turn  from  many  a  lively  form  and 
sparkling  eye,  as  too  spirited,  till  at  last  Mary,  with  her  quiet,  unas- 
suminor  manners,  fixed  his  attention.  After  due  consideration  of 
the  subject  in  all  its  various  bearings,  he  offered  her  his  hand.  Love 
or  even  esteem  he  did  not  excite ;  nor  did  he  particularly  ask  it. 
He  made  her  a  proposal,  and  if  she  accepted  it,  it  was  well — if  not, 
it  was  well,  Unimpassioned  respect  was  the  most  she  could  feel  for 
him,  and  her  feelings  revolted  at  the  thought  of  uniting  herself  for- 
ever to  one  so  different  from  the  ideal  perfection  of  her  fancy.  But 
again  the  passiveness  of  her  disposition  yielded  to  the  urgent  wishes 
of  friends;  she  could  object  to  nothing  in  his  character,  and  she 
consented,  as  too,  too  many  have  done,  because  friends  and  the 
world  pronounced  it  "  a  good  match."  They  see  the  gay  uniting 
with  the  gloomy,  the  giddy  with  the  grave,  virtue  with  vice,  and 
age  with  youth,  and  they  pronounce  it,  at  once,  an  unsuitable  con- 
nection. But  can  the  world  look  through  these  seeming  discrepan- 
cies, and  trace  the  secret  bonds  of  sympathy,  which  link  one  heart 
to  another  ?     No !  it  is  an  intellijjfence  between  the?}i,  and  them 


170  MARY    WARREN. 

only.  We  sec  its  power,  as  we  do  that  in  Nature,  every  where  evi- 
dent, yet  every  where  mysterious — acknowledged  by  all,  yet  by  all 
undefinable.  And  where  was  there  one  connecting  bond  of  sympathy 
between  them  ?  He  valued  the  rain  and  the  sunshine  as  they  fos- 
tered his  grain,  and  ripened  his  fruits.  The  tempest  rose  in  the 
west,  and  if  his  crops  remained  uninjured,  it  sank  in  the  east  with- 
out raising  a  single  emotion  in  his  bosom.  The  singing  of  the  birds, 
that  boded  no  change  in  ;he  weather,  was  totally  unheeded,  and  the 
l^eauty  of  any  scene  was  in  exact  proportion  to  its  utility.  Such 
was  what  the  world  called  "a  good  match."  In  their  view  she  had 
married  well,  therefore  happily.  They  knew  her  not;  but  to  me  it 
seemed  Milton's  II  Penseroso  beside  an  Agricultural  Address. 

She  had  moved  to  his  paternal  dwelling,  a  few  miles  from  our 
village,  and  I  was  soon  on  my  way  thither.  I  have  ever  thought, 
(and  why  not  with  reason  ?)  that  the  appearance  of  a  man's  dwelling 
discovers  the  cardinal  traits  of  his  character;  and  never  was  I  more 
firmly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  my  theory  than  while  approaching 
the  plain,  prim  built  house,  with  its  sedate  yellow  front  and  red 
porch,  its  rail-fenced  garden,  and  its  two  barns  standing  out  in  bold 
relief,  flanked  by  out-houses  of  every  size  and  description,  I  con- 
trasted it  with  her  former  home,  hung  like  a  bird-cage  in  the  midst 
of  trees  and  shrubbery,  its  garden  displaying,  even  in  its  plainest 
part,  the  hand  of  taste.  Abundant  wealth  and  substantial  comfort 
looked  forth  from  every  thing  round  the  one — usefulness  and  the 
most  scrupulous  order  was  the  evident  and  only  object  in  its  arrange- 
ment— while  in  the  other,  taste  had  so  mingled  use  with  ornament, 
that,  without  the  least  pretension  to  opulence,  it  spoke  at  once 
refinement  and  elegance.  I  could  not  help  comparing  each  to  the 
difierent  characters  of  the  dwellers,  and  wondering  which,  in  truth, 
had  the  greatest  share  of  happiness,  the  beings  of  romance  or  reality 
— those  of  exquisite  sensibilities,  who  enjoy  the  pleasures  and  feel 
the  sorrows  of  life  to  the  most  acute  degree,  or  those  whom  joy 
cannot  elevate,  nor  sorrow  depress,  beyond  a  certain  degree  of  cool 
and  placid  equanimity.  Ere  I  had  decided,  our  chaise  was  at  the 
door;  and  how  quickly  feeling  puts  reasoning  to  flight.  I  then 
thought,  that  for  the  bliss  of  that  warm-hearted  meeting  with  Mary, 
would  I  willingly  bear  its  corresponding  portion  of  pain. 

She  showed  me  her  household  establishment,  and  pointed  out  all 
the  comforts  with  which  it  abounded.  The  orchard,  the  fields,  and 
the  garden,  rich  with  the  ripened  fruit  and  grain,  were  all  subjects 


MARY    WAPvREN.  171 

of  commendation.  Of  her  husband  she  spoke  with  respect  and 
kindness,  and  seemed  to  interest  herself  in  the  cares  of  her  house 
with  a  cheerful  contentment  that  might  have  made  a  passing  observer 
believe  her  happy.  But  to  the  scrutinizing  glance  of  friendship 
there  was  something  no  effort  could  hide,  an  expression  of  weariness 
in  her  eye,  that  spoke  too  plainly  of  a  sickening  heart.  Her  efforts 
to  conceal  it  fi'om  me,  forbade  my  speaking,  and  there  was  a  kind 
of  restraint,  which  was  painful  to  both,  but  which  neither  could 
break  through ;  till,  as  she  was  one  day  explaining  some  intended 
alteration  in  the  garden,  her  eye  rested  on  a  rose  tree  she  had  trans- 
planted from  her  own,  now  leafless  and  withered :  "  My  poor  rose 
tree!"  she  exclaimed:  "when  I  took  it  from  its  shady  nook,  last 
spring,  it  was  green  and  budding  in  all  its  beauty,  and  now  it  will 
never  bloom  again — a  change  of  soil  has  ill  suited  either  of  us." 
Her  eyes,  filled  with  tears,  met  mine,  and  casting  herself  on  my 
bosom,  she  wept  with  the  unrestrained  sorrow  of  a  breaking  heart. 
The  restraint  she  had,  from  a  sense  of  her  sacred  duty  as  a  wife, 
imposed  on  herself,  was  at  an  end,  and  with  all  the  soul-uniting 
confidence  of  our  early  intercourse  did  she  give  vent  to  the  feelings 
she  had  hitherto  endeavored  to  smother  and  conceal.  She  had  looked 
on  the  world,  colored  by  her  own  imagination,  as  an  admiring  child 
views  the  scene  in  its  air-blown  bubble,  reflected  in  a  thousand  lovely 
tints ;  the  bubble  burst,  and  the  objects  stood  around  her  in  their 
own  plain  reality.  The  earth  still  was  beautiful  to  her,  but  the 
few  months  since  her  marriage  had  shown  her  how  great  was  the 
contrast  it  formed  with  those  who  inhabited  it — the  selfish,  the  cold 
hearted,  the  calculating — and  she  felt  like  one  awakening  from  a 
dream  of  Arcadia  in  a  Siberian  climate.  There  are  some,  to  whom 
such  a  climate  is  congenial,  but  Mary  was  not  one  of  them.  Still, 
could  she  have  turned  from  the  bleak  coldness  of  all  around,  to  the 
cheering  ray  of  love,  all  had  been  well.  But  oh !  Sympathy !  with- 
out thee,  what  is  Love  ? — a  heavenly  name  for  an  earthly  passion — 
and  without  thee,  what  is  wedded  life  ? — a  scene  of  gloomy  clouds 
and  wearying  cares — a  bondage  that  degrades  every  higher  feeling 
of  the  soul.  Thou  art  the  light  and  the  consolation,  the  spark 
which  kindles  the  purest  flame  in  the  human  bosom.  Of  this  there 
was  nothing  in  their  union,  and  I  soon  saw  that 

"  The  vile  daily  drop  on  drop,  which  wears 
The  soul  out,  like  the  stone,  with  petty  cares^ ' 

had  began  its  work.     The  excitement  of  meeting  passed  away,  and 


172  MARY    WARREN. 

with  it  tlio  energy  of  feeling  wliicli  had  ever  so  strikingly  character- 
ized her.  Listless  and  wear}',  she  seemed  to  wait  the  coming  of 
the  destroyer,  and  her  pale  brow  and  the  fitful  line  of  her  cheek  told 
tliat  his  hand  had  already  marked  her  for  his  own.  What  was  once 
pensiveness  had  deepened  into  melancholy,  sad,  silent  and  settled ; 
that  twilight  shade  which  I  ever  look  on  as  the  sure  precursor  of 
night.  Though  her  health  was  so  evidently  declining,  she  spoke  not 
of  it,  and  I  sometimes  thought  she  perceived  it  not. 

It  was  one  evening  in  late  autumn.  The  harvest  was  gathered 
from  the  fields  around  us — the  last  leaves  were  trembling  on  the 
branches  above  us,  or  circling  slowly  and  silentl}^  to  the  ground  at 
the  slightest  breath  of  air.  It  was  Mary's  favorite  season,  and  she 
gazed  on  the  scene  with  an  earnestness  and  expression  of  intense 
feelings,  that  forcibly  reminded  me  of  her  early  days. 

I  have  sometimes  fancied,  that,  in  such  moments  of  excitement, 
the  spirit  can  look  into  futurit}^,  and  there  in  dim-written,  yet  indel- 
ible characters,  trace  out  the  line  of  its  destiny.  Was  it  this  pro- 
phetic vision  that  dictated  these  few  lines  I  found  written,  a  few 
days  after,  bearing  the  date  of  that  evening,  or  was  it  merely  the 
consciousness  of  ebbing  life  ?  I  know  not.  The  trembling  of  the 
hand  that  traced  the  lines  was  evident,  and  betrayed  both  the  pro- 
gress of  disease  and  the  agitation  of  her  mind. 

Now  autumn's  faded  mantle 

Is  cast  o'er  flower  and  tree, 
And  smiling  summer's  beauty 

Is  fading  silently. 

I  would  not  weep — but  there's  a  voice 

In  nature's  sad  decay, 
That  boding  whispers  to  mine  ear — 

"  Thou,  too,  wilt  pass  away." 

It  sighs  through  every  leafless  tree — 

It  comes  in  each  wild  blast — 
It  speaks  from  every  dying  flower — 

"  Thy  spring,  thy  life  is  past." 

I  see  it  in  my  wasting  form, 

And  read  it  on  my  brow — 
I  feel  upon  my  sinking  heart 

Death's  icy  chill,  e'en  now. 

A  shadowy  form  seems  following  me, 

With  silent,  stealthy  tread. 
Pointing  with  pale  and  withered  hand 

To  earth,  my  destined  bed. 


A    BIBLICAL    CRITIC.  1/3 

The  pleasant  earth  !— I  Avould  not  mourn 

Nor  muraiur  at  my  lot, 
But  oh !  to  pass  so  soon  away — 

And  be  so  soon  forgot ! 

The  bh-ds  I've  loved  so  well  will  sing, 

The  new  sprung  grass  will  wave, 
And  spring's  sweet  flowers  will  bloom  again 

O'er  my  forgotten  grave. 

How  true  was  her  propliecy,  a  new  raised  stone  to  her  memory, 
in  our  village  church-yard,  can  tell 


»  t  »  «  » 


A    BIBLICAL    CKITIC. 


The  best  specimen  of  original  criticism  we  ever  heard  was  in  a 
stage  coach  ride  to  Berry  Edge.  Three  of  us  were  talking  about 
Adlm  and  his  fall.  The  point  of  discussion  was  the^  apparent  im- 
possibility  that  a  perfect  man  like  Adam  could  commit  sin. 

"But  he  wasnH  perfect,"  ejaculated  one  of  the  three. 

''' Wasn't  perfect!"  we  ejaculated,  with  amazement. 

"  No,  sir,  he  wasn't  perfect,"  repeated  the  commentator. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  we  asked. 

"Well,"  answered  the  authority,  "he  was  made  perfect,  I  admit, 
but  he  didn't  stay  perfect." 

"How?" 

"Why,  was  not  one  of  his  ribs  removed?  If  he  was  perfect 
with  alfhis  ribs,  he  was  not  perfect  after  losing  one,  was  he,  say  ?" 

Our  say  was  silence.  We  were  convinced,  then,  that  woman  was 
the  cause  of  man's  original  im^QTiQGi\on.—E7iglish  paper. 


♦  ■<>»» 


A  Greek  maid  being  asked  what  fortune  she  would  bring  her 
husband,  answered :  "  I  will  bring  him  what  is  more  valuable  than 
any  treasure— the  heart  unspotted,  and  that  virtue,  without  a  stam, 
which  was  all  that  descended  to  me  from  my  parents." 


XJ^AIININGS    OF    THE    SPIRIT. 


BY   ANNIE    DANE. 


I  STOOD  beside  the  dark  blue  sea,  and  watched  its  waters  roll, 
And  listened  to  its  music  wild  that  thrilled  ray  inmost  soul ; 
From  her  pure  throne  on  high  the  moon  poured  forth  her  silvery  beams, 
Cresting  each  wave  that  proudly  rose  with  bright  and  fitful  gleams ; 
And  on  my  ear  wind-spirits  rung  their  strangely  joyous  lay, 
While  angel  voices  from  afar  seemed  calling  me  away. 
My  sad  response  they  heeded  not,  on  fleet  wing  hasting  by. 
They  gave  to  me  no  power  to  soar  with  them  so  free  and  high. 
And  then  my  burning,  restless  soul,  with  yearnings  deep  was  fraught, 
Yearnings  for  what  it  could  not  find,  and  oft  in  vain  had  sought, 
'Till  all  its  fires  were  gathered  on  ambition's  dazzling  shrine. 
And  fame  was  dreamed  of  with  delight  and  worshipped  as  divine. 
I  sought  a  name  whose  echo  should  be  heard  in  distant  years. 
When,  in  the  silence  of  the  grave,  were  hushed  all  hopes  and  fears. 
I  cared  not  for  the  sparkling  gems  within  the  earth  enshrined, 
But  those  whose  home  is  in  the  soul,  the  bright  gems  of  the  mind ! 
•I  worshipped  Genius,  and  strange  thoughts  came  o'er  me  at  its  name, 
I  longed  to  kindle  in  my  breast  its  pure  undying  flame, 
To  trace  in  words  that  should  endure  upon  Time's  living  scroll, 
The  powerful  and  the  soaring  thought,  born  of  the  mighty  soul. 
I  would  have  known  if  this  might  be  or  was  a  vision  vain. 
That  would  pass  by  and  leave  the  soul  as  passes  some  wild  strain : 
I  gazed  upon  the  stars  that  shone  unnumbered  in  the  sky. 
And  as  the  eastern  sages,  sought  to  read  my  destiny ; 
But  mystery  veiled  their  beaming  words,  their  characters  of  light, 
I  watched  and  spoke  to  them  in  vain  through  all  the  still,  dark  night; 
I  listened  for  some  oracle  borne  on  the  slumbering  air, 
But  the  sweet  sound  that  met  my  ear  but  filled  me  with  despair. 
It  was  a  language  far  too  pure  for  me  to  comprehend. 
It  could  not  bid  one  ray  of  peace  into  my  heart  descend ; 
My  longings  could  not  be  appeased,  I  felt  I  was  not  blest, 
That  nought  on  earth  had  power  to  give  my  wayward  spirit  rest. 

I  stood  by  my  low  casement,  while  the  night  shades  fell  around, 
I  heard  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  the  streamlet's  murmuring  sound, 
My  fevered  brov/  was  gently  fanned  by  the  cool  summer  air. 
And  the  breezes  wafted  tremblingly  the  light  curls  of  my  hair ; 


YEARNINGS    OF    THE    SPIRIT.  175 

All  but  my  restless  spirit  seemed  blest  with  a  holy  peace, 

Strange  chords  were  vibrating  within,  I  could  not  bid  them  cease. 

Though  Nature  long  had  nursed  my  soul,  as  waters  wild  and  deep 

Nurse  the  bright  sea-shells  that  within  their  sparry  caverns  sleep, 

Until  they  learn  the  thrilling  notes  of  the  wildly  dashing  spray, 

And  echo  them  when  rudely  torn  far  from  their  depths  away. 

Though  I  had  loved  her  wildest  notes,  her  whispers  sad  and  low, 

And  ever  listened  Avith  delight  to  her  music's  ceaseless  flow, 

When  rest  as  pure  as  that  which  reigns  above  yon  azure  blue, 

Had  cast  o'er  all  its  mystic  power  to  calm  and  to  subdue, 

"Within  my  soul  was  no  response,  'twas  filled  with  yearnings  still. 

Such  as  the  sea-bird's,  when  its  notes  far  o'er  the  wide  sea  thrill. 

Methought  it  was  my  bitter  curse  no  rest  on  earth  to  find, 

That  all  I'd  sought,  the  pure,  the  good,  were  phantoms  of  the  mind : 

I'd  sought  the  true,  the  beautiful,  that  may  not  pass  away, 

As  pass  the  rainbow  hues  that  gild  the  ocean's  glittering  spray; 

I'd  sought  for  purity  of  soul,  for  loftiness  of  heart. 

For  strength  of  purpose,  and  a  mind  beyond  the  reach  ot  art; 

I'd  felt  the  evidence  within  of  an  immortal  birth. 

That  never  could  be  satisfied  with  the  dull  things  of  earth; 

But  I  had  lost  'mid  clouds  my  home  that  brightly  gleamed  afar, 

And  had  forgot  while  wandering  here  I  had  a  guiding  star  ; 

And  while  these  thoughts  stirred  every  fount  within  my  dreaming  breast, 

As  winds  that  thrill  the  forest  leaves,  my  spirit  found  no  rest. 

I  had  been  amid  the  multitude,  the  young,  the  gay,  the  fair, 

And  on  their  clear  and  placid  brows  had  seen  no  trace  of  care ; 

Though  I  had  veiled  my  heart  with  smiles,  and  seemed  as  light  as  they, 

I  gladly  sought  a  silent  spot,  and  turned  from  them  away ; 

For  many  a  thought  was  in  my  soul  I  could  not  cast  aside, 

As  fiery  and  as  uncontrolled  as  the  rolling  lava  tide ; 

That  gave  a  deep  hue  to  my  cheek,  and  a  brightness  to  my  eye, 

Though  no  one  dreamed  that  they  were  there,  and  no  one  heard  the  sigh, 

1  sought  amid  the  heartless  world  a  love  that  was  not  here 

And  hoped  to  find  it  in  a  few  that  to  my  heart  were  dear, 

But  oft  a  cold,  indifferent  word  fell  on  my  listening  ear, 

The  glance  that  once  was  dear  to  me  I  learned  to  meet  with  fear : 

Oh !  had  I  known  the  only  fount  from  which  deep  love  doth  flow, 

My  spirit  had  not  bowed  with  grief  in  its  dark  home  below, 

Yet  still  it  sought  what  was  not  here  and  still  it  found  no  rest, 

And  still  I  murmured  bitterly,  "  my  soul  will  ne'er  be  blest." 

'Twas  midnight,  and  my  spirit  felt  how  holy  was  the  hour, 
For  over  it  was  cast  the  spell  of  a  mysterious  power : 
I  kne:t  beside  my  lowly  couch  and  tears  fell  from  my  eye. 
And  often  from  my  heart  escaped  the*deep-heaved,  weary  sigh. 
There  was  a  burden  on  my  soul  I  fain  would  cast  away. 
And  as  I  bowed  beneath  its  weight  I  moved  my  lips  to  pray ; 


17G  xnuE  riiiLosoPHY. 

And  soon  tliere  dawned  upon  my  sight  a  faintly  glimmering  ray, 

It  was  the  star  of  Hope  that  shone  above  Life's  troubled  vray ; 

Trembling  I  ga^^ed  with  tear  dimmed  eye,  and  asked,  "  beams  that  for  me  \ 

And  will  it  guide  my  wandering  soul  home  to  eternity'?" 

I  heard  a  sweet  and  welcome  voice,  bidding  my  spirit  come, 

Leaving  the  things  of  earth  behind,  back  to  its  long  lost  home  ; 

I  heard  strange  music  from  afar,  and  ray  own  mother's  voice. 

Far  more  than  all  in  that  bright  choir,  seemed  o'er  me  to  rejoice. 

And  then  my  spirit  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pure,  the  good,  the  fair 

And  holy  peace  filled  all  ray  soul,  for  I  knew  my  home  was  there ; 

I  felt  that  I  could  linger  here  on  this  dull  earth  no  more. 

But  must  to  my  forgiving  God  and  all  that's  holy  soar, 

And  the  bright  gleams  of  peace  and  hope  gave  my  glad  spirit  rest, 

And  I  looked  up  with  clasped  hands,  and  said,  "  my  soul  is  blest." 


♦    9    <C>    »    ♦ 


TEUE    PHILOSOPHY. 


I  SAW  a  pale  mourner  staud  bending  over  the  tomb,  and  his  tears  fell 
fast  and  often.     As  he  raised  his  humid  eyes  to  heaven;  he  cried — 

"  My  brother !     0,  my  brother  !" 

A  sage  passed  that  way  and  said : 

"For  whom  dost  thou  mourn  ?" 

"  One,"  replied  he,  "whom  I  did  not  sufficiently  love  while  living* 
but  whose  inestimable  worth  I  now  feel." 

"What  would'st  thou  do  if  he  were  restored  to  thee?" 

The  mourner  replied,  that  he  would  never  offend  him  by  any 
unkind  word,  but  he  would  take  every  occasion  to  show  his  friend- 
ship, if  he  could  but  come  back  to  his  fond  embrace." 

"  Then  waste  no  time  in  useless  grief,"  said  the  sage,  "but  if  thou 
hast  friends,  go  and  cherish  the  living,  remembering  that  they  will 
die  one  day  also." 


♦  •    ^    a  ♦ 


A  PERSON  once  observing  to  an  ancient  Greek  philosopher  that 
it  was  a  great  happiness  to  have  what  we  desire,  the  sage  replied : 
"But  is  it  not  a  greater  happiness  to  desire  nothing  but  what  we 
have  ?" 


THAMYRIS. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    KRUMMACIIEH. 


BY    MRS.    ST.    SIMON. 


A  YOUTHFUL  poet,  endowed  with  creative  genius  and  high  capa- 
bilities, joined  himself  to  the  scholars  of  the  divine  Plato.  His 
songs  were  praised  by  all  who  knew  him,  and  in  him  Greece  promised 
herself  a  second  Sophocles  and  Pindar. 

But  the  praise  of  the  crowd  bewildered  him,  and  puiFed  him  up, 
so  that  he  spoke  scornfully  of  Hesiod  and  Eschylus,  and  other 
masters  of  song. 

This  grieved  the  divine  sage,  and  he  wished  to  heal  the  soul  of 
the  vain  youth.  "I  should  do  a  greater  service  to  my  country," 
he  said,  "  than  if  I  should  win  for  her  a  province ;  for  the  sacred  art 
of  song  was  given  to  man  to  elevate  him  above  the  earth ;  but  it 
was  not  destined  to  be  the  possession  of  a  diseased  soul." 


On  an  evening  in  spring  the  young  poet  approached  Plato,  as  he 
was  walking  alone  in  the  gardens  of  the  Academy.  The  youth 
addressed  the  sage,  and  said:  "I  have  now  almost  completed  my 
poem,  which  is  to  delight  Greece,  and  gain  me  eternal  laurels." 

"  I  wish  thee  joy,  if  thou  should'st  succeed,"  answered  Plato. 

"And  how  should  I  not?"  replied  the  youth,  hastily. 

Then  Plato  said :  "  The  gift  of  song,  my  son,  comes  from  the 
gods ;  from  them  also  comes  success ;  but  thou  seemest  to  think  not 
of  them,  but  of  thyself  alone." 

The  youth  replied  :  "  I  feel  the  divinity  within  me." 

"Rather  say  that  thou  feel'st  thyself  in  the  divinity,"  replied 
the  sage.. 

"  Are  not  both  one  and  the  same  thing  ?"  asked  the  youth. 

"  Far  from  it,"  answered  Plato.  "  Now  thou  thiuk'st  and  speak'st 
only  of  thyself,  and  believest  in  thyself  alone,  and  in  thy  powers. 
In  the  other  case,  thy  lips  would  be  silent,  except  in  song.  Worldly 
fame  and  the  applause  of  the  multitude,  is  thy  first  ambition.  The 
heavenly,  my  dear  son,  should  precede  the  earthly." 


178  TIIAMYRIS. 

The  youth  said;  " Plato,  I  understand  thee  not." 

"  I  will  speak  to  thee  in  the  words  of  the  father  of  seers  and  of 
singers,"  replied  the  sage.  "Even  although  thou  art  inclined  to 
undervalue  his  excellence,  yet  he  is  thine  elder,  and  it  is  the  duty 
of  j'outh  to  listen  to  the  words  of  age." 

''"Well,  be  it  so,"  answered  the  youth,  "although  I  can  never 
consider  him  a  pattern  of  the  highest  order.     But  speak  !" 

"He  teaches  us  many  a  lesson  of  wisdom  in  his  old  fables,  which 
thou  wilt  not  scorn.     Well,  listen  to  one  of  them." 

Plato  now  led  the  youth  into  a  perfumed  grove.  They  took  their 
seats,  and  the  sage  related  as  follows:  "Thamyris,  the  sweet  singer 
of  Thrace,  came  to  king  Eurytos,  of  (Echalia,  who  rewarded  him 
gloriously  for  his  song,  and  honored  him  as  a  favorite  of  the  Muses. 
But  the  king's  praise  and  his  rich  reward  corrupted  the  excellent 
singer.  For  he  boasted  aloud,  in  his  presumption,  of  his  mastery 
in  song,  and  of  his  certainty  of  victory,  even  should  the  Muses 
themselves  contend  with  him. 

•'  The  muses,  who,  in  that  age,  still  appeared,  at  times,  among 
mortals,  met  him  upon  his  path,  and  chastised  his  presumption. 
They  punished  him  with  blindness,  and,  alas !  they  took  from  him 
also  the  sweet  gift  of  song,  and  the  art  of  the  sounding  lyre." 

"  How  could  the  gods,"  asked  the  youth,  "  so  inconsistently  destroy 
in  him  the  divine  gift  which  they  had  bestowed  upon  him  ?" 

"Not  they,"  answered  Plato,  "but  he  himself  destroyed  it. 
With  his  inward  darkness,  began  his  blindness  and  his  punishment." 

"But  listen,"  continued  the  sage,  "to  what  the  old  fable  adds 
farther.  The  Muses  did  not  destroy  the  divine  gift ;  they  caused 
the  soul  of  Thamyris  to  pass  into  a  nightingale.  Dost  thou  not 
hear  it  yonder  among  the  palm  trees  ?  Dost  thou  not  know  the 
favorite  bird  of  the  Muses  ?  Its  form  is  most  simple  and  unadorned ; 
it  conceals  itself  in  the  dark  groves,  and  loves  to  utter  its  melodious 
song  in  the  silent  night.  It  knows  not  that  it  bears  the  soul  of  a 
Thamyris  in  its  tender  bosom." 

Plato  was  now  silent,  and  listened  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale. 
The  youth  left  the  sage  with  an  embittered  heart ;  and  scorning 
the  teachings  of  Nature  and  of  wisdom,  he  never  returned  to  the 
gardens  of  the  Academy. 

But  the  name  of  that  youtK  Is  not  named  among  the  singers  of 
Greece. 


tn  grave  a.  "bv  X  L  one 


3fAF0LEb^''§   FA^"^"^- 


THE    STORY    OF    NAPOLEON, 


There  is  something  a  little  Frencli-tlieatrical  in  the  air  and  ex« 
pression  of  Napoleon ;  those  upturned  eyes  of  his  convey  to  us  an 
idea  rather  of  what  the  artist  would  consider  touching  than  of  what 
the  fallen  Emperor  would  be  likely  to  do  with  his  eyes  at  such  a 
moment.  We  can  more  distinctly  imagine  him  clasping  the  imperial 
child  to  his  bosom,  and  gazing  with  sad  fondness  in  its  unconscious, 
happy  face — rivetting  his  eyes  theve^  and  keeping  them  fixed  there 
through  all  the  brief,  sorrowful  moments  of  the  parting.  "VYe  are 
aware  that  the  idea  intended  to  be  conveyed  may  be  that  of  invoking 
a  benediction  from  on  high  for  the  life  and  happiness  of  the  child- 
king  ;  but  Napoleon  was  not  addicted  to  that  kind  of  prayer,  or  in- 
deed to  prayer  of  any  kind ;  and  even  if  he  had  been,  the  strength 
of  his  love  for  that  fair  and  unhappy  infant — the  victim  then  of  his 
father's  errors  and  of  the  terror  that  father  had  cast  upon  the  souls 
of  all  Europe's  rulers,  and,  a  few  brief  years  after,  the  victim  of 
Austrian  cold-blooded  policy  and  his  own  corroding  thoughts  and 
aspirations — Napoleon's  love  for  that  child,  we  say,  would  have  in- 
dulged itself  rather  in  passionate  embraces  and  tender  endearments 
than  in  artistical  positions  and  pious  ejaculations.  But  this  is  a 
question  of  taste,  or  rather  of  fancy.  Some  may  imagine  Napoleon 
standing,  doing  and  looking,  on  the  sad  occasion,  precisely  as  the 
painter  has  represented  him ;  and  perhaps  those  some  would  be 
quite  as  near  the  truth  in  their  opinion  as  we  in  ours. 

More  profitable  and  more  to  the  purpose  than  such  narrow-eyed 
fault-finding  is  it  to  dwell  upon  the  moral  accompaniments  of  the 
scene.  In  it  we  see  the  downfall  of  a  sovereign — the  chief  of  a 
mighty  empire,  on  the  throne  of  which  he  had  placed  himself  by  his 
consummate  abilities,  his  unbounded  daring,  his  wonderful  command 
over  the  aifections,  or  rather  the  enthusiastic  devotion  of  a  whole 
people ;  an  empire,  too,  which  crumbled  to  ruins  at  his  falL 

The  engraving  tells  the  story  of  mere  intellectual  greatness,  ac* 
complishing  wonders  in  the  space  of  its  brilliant  career,  but  crushed 
at  last  under  the  weight  of  overgrown  ambition.  In  a  word,  it  tells 
the  story  of  Napoleon. 


POETRY. 

ITS    PROVINCE,    AND    INFLUENCE    ON    90CIE1T. 


"  Trutlis  that  wake, 
To  perish  never." — Wordsworth. 

To  gather  the  rays  of  divinity  that  are  scattered  amidst  th^ 
clouds  of  this  world  into  a  pencil,  to  assist  us  to  read  the  characters 
of  wisdom  that  lie  about  us,  is  a  most  charitable  and  pious  work. 
This  is  the  highest  province  of  poetry,  and  those  poets  who  have 
been  faithful  to  their  trust,  have  been  both  the  patrons  of  sound 
philosophy,  and  the  guardians  of  religion.  The  poet's  "  chambers 
of  imagery"  are  furnished  with  "  the  substance  of  things  invisible'^ 
— the  shadows  of  which  he  casts  upon  his  pages.  Homer,  Shak- 
speare,  Spenser  and  Milton,  saw  "  millions  of  spiritual  creatures," 
which  were  not  palpable  to  common  vision,  guarding  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  globe  when  asleep,  and  mingling  with,  and  directing 
their  fiery  action  when  awake.  In  the  mind's  eye  of  Homer,  an  ex- 
hibition of  prudence  or  wisdom  was  the  presence  of  an  immortal 
goddess  in  celestial  panoply.  On  a  gusty  night,  in  the  moon  and 
stars,  glancing  across  the  clouded  heaven,  he  saw  Diana  and  a  train 
of  Oreades  sweeping  in  the  storm  of  chase.  In  the  still  soft  mur- 
murings  of  the  wind  at  noon  his  ear  heard  the  harmony  of  the 
spheres.  In  the  sun  wheeling  his  course  around  the  heavens,  he 
saw  a  youth  of  immortal  beauty,  crowned  with  bays.  But  when 
his  rays  scorched  the  earth,  and  det^eloped  the  principles  of  the  pes- 
tilence, he  beheld  an  incensed  Deity  launching  fatal  arrows  from  a 
silver  bow.  In  the  passion  of  vengeance,  pursuing  its  victim,  he 
beheld  a  fiend  from  hell.  All  passions  in  his  visions  were  clad  in 
immortal  forms.  He  saw  the  impassable  spirits  of  Heaven  walking 
about  the  earth,  superintending  and  controlling  the  actions  of  men. 
They  breathed  in  the  winds  that  filled  his  sails,  and  hovered  in  the 
foam  that  followed  the  passage-  of  his  keel  through  the  waves. 
Poetic  conceptions  in  his  soul  seemed  the  inspirations  of  a  goddess. 
Deities  were  the  ancestors  of  his  heroes,  and  piety  was  the  natural 
prompting  of  his  heart.  To  him,  what  glory  invested  the  earth,  the 
air,  the  sky,  the  sea,  thus  instinct  with  the  immortal  Presence  ! 


POETRY ITS    TROVINCE    A^'D    INFUEXCE    ON    SOCIETY.  183 

This  armor  of  si^iritual  light  was  proof  against  the  shocks  of  adver- 
sity. These  invisible  substances  almost  bridged  over  the  awful 
chasm  of  dissolution,  making  it  only  a  simple  transition  to  the  fields 
of  Elysium.  This  reflection  of  splendid  visions  from  the  soul's 
chambers  into  the  material  world,  is  common  to  all  poetic  minds 
Spenser's  soul  was  a  fairy  land,  over  which  all  the  virtues  wera 
coursing — like  chivalrous  knights  in  resplendent  armor,  struggling 
against  oppression,  wrong,  and  outrage,  and  constantly  opposed  by 
vices  and  passions  in  the  figures  of  fiends,  fairies,  giants,  monsters, 
and  the  whole  progeny  of  a  teeming  imagination. 

"What  visions  poetry  is  yet  to  produce  from  her  chambers,  it  ia 
impossible  to  conjecture.  She  may,  in  some  impassioned  moment, 
rend  the  dense  veil  that  hides  the  soul  from  view,  and  exhibit  the 
mental  eye  to  its  own  gaze !  She  unquestionably  possesses  a  sort  of 
conservative  power  in  mental  developments,  which  may  be  likened 
to  the  spirit  of  liberty,  developed  in  the  Anglo  Saxon  race — liberty, 
in  this  race,  always  inspiring  some  champion  to  strike  the  most  suc- 
cessful blows  just  when  oppressive  tyranny  seemed  most  threaten- 
ing ;  and  thus  making  each  encroachment  on  Freedom,  a  point  on 
n-hich  to  erect  the  trophy  of  a  victory  gained — as  the  history  of 
England  and  North  America  abundantly  testify.  And  poetry 
always  inviting  the  attention  of  men  to  the  purest  and  most  spiritual 
conceptions,  when  scofiing  profanity,  or  hard,  cold,  and  subtle  ra- 
tionalism seemed  hurrying  the  race  into  the  regions  of  Atheism. 
This  supposition  may  seem  fanciful,  but  it  is  not  unsupported  by 
striking  examples.  Take  the  instance  of  Milton.  The  great  master 
of  song  retires  from  scenes  in  which  he  had  been  a  conspicuous,  and 
the  ablest  actor,  smitten  with  blindness ;  and  instead  of  arresting 
the  attention  of  Europe  with  defences  of  revolutions  and  royal 
murder,  dictates  the  Paradise  Lost !  Here  is  an  intellectual  barrier 
against  Atheism,  that  cannot  be  passed,  until  all  the  sweet  lights  of 
Heaven  are  extinguished  in  the  soul,  and  all  taste  for  spiritual  food 
destroyed.  Again,  the  poetry  of  our  own  age  is  in  strange  and  most 
honorable  contrast  with  the  "  prevailing  spirit."  When  old  habits 
and  associations  are  violently  sundered  by  startling  innovations— 
when  men  drink  not  deep,  but  intoxicating  draughts  at  the  foun- 
tains of  science — ^when  the  fountains  of  honesty  are  corrupted  by 
sophistry  and  charlatanry— when  a  vast  portion  of  the  periodical 
press  serves  up  vile  garbage  to  a  diseased  appetite,  that  only  be- 
comes more  diseased  by  the  food  it  craves  and  devours.    In  the  era 


184         rOETRY--ITS    TROVIXCE    AND    INFLUENCE    ON    SOCIETY. 

of  steam,  and  iron  roads — the  poets,  to  their  everlasving  honor, 
with  only  one  or  two  exceptions — (and  even  in  these,  the  vicious  is 
the  dcca3'ing  part !) — liave  drawn  crystal  waters  from  the  streams 
of  Castalia.  As  the  public  morals  have  become  loose,  their  strains 
have  mounted,  and  become  pure  and  spiritual.  They  have  unfolded 
a  moral  creed,  which  is  sound,  and  sufficiently  expansive  to  include 
all  the  virtues.  The}"  have  taken  care  to  advocate  intellectual 
liberty,  in  communion  with  the  checks  and  restraints  of  religion. 
They  have  shed  an  unfading  lustre  upon  a  class  of  subjects,  which, 
until  recently,  have  quite  escaped  the  notice  of  those  who  have  re- 
corded their  reflections  and  impressions — subjects  that  approach 
the  primeval  source  of  our  being,  and  gather  up  the  indications  of 
divine  origin,  and  of  immortality  from  the  bright  impressions,  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  infancy  and  childhood,  and  the  catastrophe  of 
early  death,  around  which  the  rays  of  divinity  so  evidently  play, 
that  the  long,  long  omission  can  hardly  be  accounted  for.  Homer 
has  sketched  only  one  scene  in  which  infancy  forms  a  figure  in  the 
foreground,  and  although  that  is  worthy  a  pencil  dipped  in  unfading 
colors,  it  is  as  cold  as  the  star  to  which  the  infant  prince  is  likened. 
Horace^  with  his  good  humored  satire  and  polished  lyrics,  has 
plucked  no  flowers  in  this  field,  and  though  Shakspeare  has  here 
and  there,  in  his  masterly  way  sketched  a  brilliant  feature  of  child- 
hood, he  only  seems  in  very  wantonness  to  have  dashed  them  ofi",  to 
show  us  that  the  sun  which  shone  in  his  soul,  irradiated  every  tinge 
of  colored  light  that  the  poetic  prism  unfolds.  There  is  no  triumph 
in  his  conceptions,  as  when  Wordsworth  exclaims : 

i'  Our  birtli  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
Tlie  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar, 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 

But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  !" 

The  sentiment  that  pervades  this  passage,  and  the  whole  of  the 
sublime  ode  of  which  it  forms  a  part,  is  not  "  horroivecV  It  burst 
from  the  bosom  of  original  genius.  It  was  cast  upon  the  shore  by 
the  waters  of  an  unfatliomed  ocean,  amidst  a  profusion  of  inestima- 
ble pearls.     In  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  picture  of  innocence,  there 


POETRY ITS    PROVINCE    AND    INFLUENCE    ON    SC  ilETY.  185 

is  SO  much  of  divinity  pla^dug  in  the  infant's  smiles,  that  one  is 
ready  to  question  whether  the  artist  borrowed  his  conception  from 
the  poet,  or  whether  the  poet  was  inspired  by  the  painter's  canvas. 
There  is  something  in  this  picture  so  heavenly,  that  you  almost  in- 
voluntarily exclaim  as  you  gaze  upon  it,  "  They  die  young  whom 
the  gods  love."  Strange  that  its  very  brightness  should  reveal  a 
shadowy  glimpse  of  that  fell  reaper,  into  whose  icy  heart  comes  no 
tender  sentiment !  And  yet  it  is  true  that  it  excites  in  its  very  joy- 
ousness  a  current  of  emotions  of  close  kindred  with  those  which 
awake  at  the  sight  of  a  young  and  tender  form,  bending  before  the 
rough  winds  of  the  world,  and  silently  gliding  from  our  embrace, 
and  smiling  even  in  the  grasp  of  death,  passes  far,  far  away  in  its 
freshness,  from  all  that  might  shade  and  sadden  a  longer  resi- 
dence here.  It  is  a  sight  almost  too  sacred  to  be  described  with 
words  ;  and  those  fine  spirits  who  have  worthily  expressed  the 
emotions  it  excites,  which  have  often  struggled  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  knew  no  utterance  for  them,  have,  in  this  superficial,  unquiet, 
and  unreflecting  age,  laid  us  under  deep  obligations.  There  are 
teachers  whose  lessons  silently  mould  the  character  of  a  whole  nation. 
There  are  sowers  who  cast  seed  into  a  vegetative  soil.  There  are 
many  passages  bright,  gleaming  along  "Wordsworth's  pages,  and 
many  scenes  drawn  by  the  author  of  the  "  old  curiosity  shop," 
which  have  made  the  scales  fall  from  our  eyes,  and  discovered  to  us 
angels  traversing  the  haunts  of  men.  Go  where  you  may,  you  shall 
find  domestic  circles  bowed  in  sadness — their  hearts  almost  sundered 
by  the  violence  of  the  shock  that  removed  a  link  from  a  chain  that 
to  them  was  hallowed.  Have  you  never  seen  a  little  boy  who  looked 
into  your  very  soul,  with  eyes  that  emitted  a  supernatural  splendor  ? 
Who  has  not  felt  his  whole  nature  stirred  in  its  inmost  depths,  as  he 
has  looked  upon  such  an  one — the  impersonation  of  innocence,  over 
whose  breast  no  wave  of  passion  ever  rolled — in  whose  soul  no  germ 
of  impurity  ever  vegetated — supported  on  pillows — watched  over 
by  maternal  tenderness,  gradually  and  unconsciously  falling  into  Jds 
arms  whom  we  are  wont  to  regard  as  the  king  of  terrors  ?  The 
silver  cord  is  loosed  so  gently — the  pulses  of  life  subside  so  quietly, 
that  it  seems  not  death,  but  only  a  transition  to  the  company  of 
those  guardian  angels  who  the  divine  Founder  of  our  religion  says, 
"  Do  always  behold  the  face  of  God."  But  the  mother  and  the 
affiicted  ones  !  Upon  their  ears  thrill  the  words  of  the  prophet — 
<'  It  is  well  with  the  cltild^'^  and  the  fountain  of  grief  is  sealed  up 


186  RELIGIOX. 

in  the  Holy  of  Holies  of  their  heart,  over  -which  a  veil  is  drawn 
that  is  never  lifted  but  by  the  hand  of  God.  Go,  survey  that  in- 
expressibly beautiful  scene,  the  death  of  the  pupil  of  the  day  school 
in  the  "  old  curiosity  shop,"  and  how  manj^  kindred  real  ones  which 
you  have  witnessed  will  it  not  recall,  where  a  little  stainless  child 
has  died  without  a  murmur,  and  in  speechless  language,  so  revealed 
to  you  the  invisible — that  you  are  proof  against  all  the  seductions 
of  Atheistic  philosophy  ?  These  flowers  spring  and  bloom  through 
the  whole  spiritual  domain.  They  convey  lessons  full  of  moving 
truth  in  an  universal  language.  Oh,  what  a  lofty  and  enviable  pre- 
rogative has  he,  in  whose  soul  the  fires  of  genius  burn  so  brightly 
that  by  their  light  he  can  discover,  amidst  the  darkness  that  en- 
velopes our  mortal  nature,  the  Patriarch's  ladder,  on  which  the 
angels  are  ascending  and  descending — 

"  From  earth  to  Heaven,  from  Heaven  to  earth." 


»  »  ^  »  » 


RELIGION 


There  is  religion  in  every  thing  around  us ;  a  calm  and  holy  re- 
ligion in  the  uubreathing  things  of  nature,  which  man  would  do  well 
to  imitate.  It  is  a  meek  and  blessed  influence,  stealing  as  it  were, 
unawares  upon  the  heart.  It  comes,  it  has  no  terror  ;  no  gloom  in 
its  approaches.  It  has  to  rouse  up  the  passions  ;  is  untrammelled  by 
the  (greeds  and  unshadowed  by  the  superstitions  of  man.  It  is  fresh 
from  the  hands  of  the  author ;  and  glowing  from  the  immediate 
presence  of  the  Great  Spirit  which  pervades  and  quickens  it.  It  is 
written  on  the  arched  sky.  It  looks  out  from  every  star.  It  is 
among  the  hills  and  vallies  of  earth,  where  the  shrubless  mountain 
top  pierces  the  thin  atmosphere  of  eternal  winter — or  where  the 
mighty  forest  fluctuates  before  the  strong  wind  with  its  dark  waves 
of  green  foliage.  It  is  spread  out  like  a  legible  language  upon  the 
broad  face  of  the  unsleeping  ocean.  It  is  the  poetry  of  nature.  It 
is  this  that  uplifts  the  spirit  within  us,  until  it  is  tall  enough  to 
overlook  the  shadows  of  our  place  of  probation;  which  breaks,  link 
after  link,  the  chains  that  bind  us  to  materiality  ;  and  which  opens 
to  imagination  a  world  of  spiritual  beauty  and  holiness. — Sir  H 
Davy. 


REVOLUTIONARY    ADVENTURE. 


The  leading  events  of  the  "War  of  Independence  are  familiar  to 
every  American ;  but  many  incidents,  full  of  interest  and  adventure, 
yet  remain  to  be  disclosed.  Tbere  are  those  yet  living  who  remem- 
ber  the  folk)wing  story. 

The  American  authorities  found  much  difficulty  in  disposing  of 
their  prisoners.  They  had  no  posts  regularly  fitted  for  the  purpose ; 
and  they  could  suggest  no  better  means  for  securing  them,  tlian  to 
place  them  under  guard  in  a  thickly  settled  part  of  the  country, 
where  the  inhabitants  were  most  decidedly  hostile  to  the  English. 
The  town  of  Lancaster,  in  Pennsylvania,  was  of  those  selected  for 
this  purpose.  The  prisoners  were  confined  in  barracks,  enclosed 
with  a  stockade  and  vigilantly  guarded.  But  in  spite  of  all  pre- 
cautions, they  often  disappeared  in  an  unaccountable  manner,  and 
nothing  was  heard  of  them  till  they  had  resumed  their  place  in  the 
British  army.  Many  and  various  were  the  conjectures  as  to  the 
means  of  their  escape;  the  officers  inquired  and  investigated  in 
vain ;  the  country  was  explored  to  no  purpose ;  the  soldiers  shook 
their  heads,  and  told  of  fortune-tellers,  pedlers,  and  such  characters, 
who  had  been  seen  at  intervals ;  and  sundry  of  the  more  credulous 
could  think  of  nothing  but  supernatural  agency ;  but  whether  man 
or  spirit  was  the  conspirator,  the  mystery  was  unbroken. 

When  this  became  known  to  Washington,  he  sent  General  Hazen 
to  take  this  responsible  charge.  This  energetic  officer,  after  exhaust- 
ino-  all  resources,  resorted  to  stratagem.  He  was  convinced  that,  as 
the  nearest  British  post  was  more  than  a  hundred  miles  distant,  the 
prisoners  must  be  aided  by  Americans,  but  where  the  suspicion  should 
fall,  he  could  not  even  conjecture ;  the  reproach  of  Toryism  being 
almost  unknown  in  that  region.  Having  been  trained  to  meet  exigen- 
cies of  this  kind,  in  a  distinguished  career  as  colonel  in  the  British 
army,  his  plan  was  formed  at  once,  and  he  communicated  it  to  an  officer 
of  bis  own,  upon  whose  talent  he  relied  for  its  successful  execution. 
This  was  Captain  Lee,  whose  courage  and  ability  fully  justified  the 
selection. 


188  REVOLUTIONARY    ADVEXTURE. 

The  secret  plan  concerted  between  them  was  this.  It  was  to  be 
given  out  tliat  Lee  was  absent  on  furlough  or  command.  He,  mean- 
time, was  to  assume  the  dress  of  a  British  prisoner,  and,  having 
provided  himself  with  information  and  a  story  of  his  capture,  was  to 
be  thrown  into  the  barracks,  where  he  might  gain  the  confidence  of 
the  soldiers,  and  join  them  in  a  plan  of  escape.  How  well  Captain 
Lee  sustained  his  part  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  when  he 
had  disappeared  and  placed  himself  among  the  prisoners,  his  own 
officers  and  soldiers  saw  him  every  day  without  the  least  suspicion. 
The  person  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  these, particulars 
was  the  Intendant  of  the  prisoners,  and  familiar  with  Lee;  but 
though  compelled  to  see  him  often  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  he 
never  penetrated  the  disguise.  Well  it  was  for  Lee  that  his  disguise 
was  so  complete.  Had  his  associates  suspected  his  purpose  to  betray 
them,  his  history  would  have  been  embraced  in  the  proverb,  "dead 
men  tell  no  tales." 

For  many  days  he  remained  in  this  situation,  making  no  discoveries 
whatever.  He  thought  he  perceived,  at  different  times,  signs  of 
intelligence  between  the  prisoners,  and  an  old  woman,  who  was  allowed 
to  bring  fruit  for  sale  within  the  enclosure.  She  was  known  to  be 
deaf  and  half-witted,  and  was  therefore  no  object  of  suspicion.  It 
was  known  that  her  son  had  been  disgraced  and  punished  in  the 
American  army,  but  she  had  never  betrayed  any  malice  on  that 
account,  and  no  one  dreamed  that  she  could  have  had  the  power  to 
do  injury  if  she  possessed  the  will.  Lee  watched  her  closely,  but 
saw  nothing  to  confirm  his  susj^icions.  Her  dwelling  was  about  a 
mile  distant,  in  a  wild  retreat,  where  she  shared  her  miserable  quar- 
ters with  a  dog  and  cat,  the  former  of  which  mounted,  guard  over 
her  mansion,  while  the  latter  encouraged  superstitious  fears  which 
were  equally  effectual  in  keeping  visiters  away. 

One  dark,  stormy  night  in  autumn,  he  was  lying  awake  at  mid- 
night, meditating  on  the  enterprize  he  had  undertaken,  which,  though 
in  the  beginning  it  had  recommended  itself  to  his  romantic  disposi- 
tion, had  now  lost  all  its  charms.  It  was  one  of  those  tempests, 
which  in  our  climate  so  often  hang  upon  the  path  of  the  departing 
year.  His  companions  slept  soundly,  but  the  wind,  which  shook 
the  building  to  its  foundation  and  threw  heavy  splashes  of  rain 
against  the  window,  conspired  with  the  state  of  his  mind,  to  keep 
him  wakeful.  All  at  once  the  door  was  gently  opened,  and  a  figure 
moved   silently  into  the  room.     It  was  too  dark  to  observe  its 


REVOLUTIONARY  ADVENTURE.  189 

motions  narrowly,  but  he  could  see  that  it  stooped  towards  one  of 
the  sleepers,  who  immediately  rose ;  next  it  approached  him  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  Lee  immediately  started  up;  the 
figure  then  allowed  a  slight  gleam  from  a  dark  lantern  to  pass  over 
his  face,  and  as  it  did  so,  whispered  impatiently,  "not  the  man — but 
come!"  It  then  occurred  to  Lee  that  this  was  the  opportunity  ho 
desired.  The  unknown  whispered  to  him  to  keep  his  place  till  another 
man  was  called  ;  but  just  at  that  moment,  some  noise  disturbed  him, 
and,  making  a  sign  to  Lee  to  follow,  he  moved  silently  out  of  the  room. 

They  found  the  door  of  the  house  unbarred,  and  a  small  part  of 
the  fence  removed,  where  they  passed  out  without  molestation ;  the 
sentry  had  retired  to  a  shelter  where  he  thought  he  could  guard  his 
post  without  suffering  from  the  rain ;  but  Lee  saw  that  his  conduc- 
tors put  themselves  in  preparation  to  silence  him  if  he  should  happen 
to  address  them.  Just  without  the  fence  appeared  a  stooping  figure, 
wrapped  in  a  red  cloak,  and  supporting  itself  with  a  large  stick,  • 
which  Lee  at  once  perceived  could  be  no  other  than  the  old  fruit 
woman.  But  the  most  profound  silence  was  observed;  a  man  came 
out  from  a  thicket  at  a  little  distance,  and  joined  them,  and  the 
whole  party  moved  onward  under  the  guidance  of  the  old  woman. 
At  first  they  frequently  stopped  to  listen,  but  having  heard  the  sen- 
tinel's cry,  "all's  well,"  they  seemed  reassured,  and  moved  with 
more  confidence  than  before. 

They  soon  came  near  to  her  cottage,  under  an  overhanging  bank, 
where  a  bright  lio-ht  was  shinino;  out  from  a  little  window  upon  the 
wet  and  drooping  boughs  that  hung  near  it.  The  dog  received  them 
graciously,  and  they  entered.  A  table  was  spread,  with  some  coarse 
provisions  upon  it,  and  a  large  jug,  which  one  of  the  soldiers  was 
about  to  seize,  when  the  man  who  conducted  them  withheld  him. 
"  No,"  said  he,  "  we  must  first  proceed  to  business."  He  then  went 
to  a  small  closet,  from  which  he  returned  with  what  seemed  to  have 
been,  originally,  a  Bible,  though  now  it  was  worn  to  a  mahogany 
color  and  a  spherical  form.  While  they  were  doing  this,  Lee  had 
time  to  examine  his  companions ;  one  of  whom  was  a  large,  quiet 
looking  soldier ;  the  other,  a  short,  stout  man,  with  much  the  aspect 
of  a  villain.  They  examined  him  in  turn,  and  as  Lee  had  been 
obliged  formerly  to  punish  the  shortest  soldier  severely,  he  felt  some 
misgivings  when  the  fellow's  eye  rested  upon  him.  Their  conductor 
was  a  middle-aged,  harsh-looking  man,  whom  Lee  had  never  seen 
before. 


100  REVOLUTIONARY    ADVENTURE. 

As  no  time  was  to  bo  lost,  their  guide  explained  to  them  in  few 
•words,  that,  before  he  should  undertake  his  dangerous  enterprise, 
he  should  require  of   them  to  swear  upon  the  Scriptures,  not  to 
njakc  the  least  attempt  to  escape,  and  never  to  reveal  the  circum- 
stances or  agents  in   the  proceeding,  whatever  might   befal  them. 
The  soldiers,  however,  insisted  on  deferring  this  measure,  till  they 
had  formed  some  slight  acquaintance  with  the  contents  of  the  jug, 
and  expressed  their  sentiments  on  the  subject  rather  by  action  than 
words.     In  this  they  were  joined  by  Lee,  who  by  this  time  had 
beo-un  to  contemplate  the  danger  of  his  enterprise  in  a  new  and  un- 
pleasant point  of  view.     If  he  were  to  be  compelled,  to  accompany 
his  party  to  New- York,  his  disguise  would  at  once  be  detected,  and 
it  was  certain  that  he  would  be  hanged  as  a  spy.  He  had  supposed, 
beforehand,  that  he  should  find  no  difficulty  in  escaping  at  any  mo- 
ment ;  but  he  saw  that  their  conductor  had  prepared  arms  for  them, 
■which  they  were  to  use  in  taking  the  life  of  any  one  who  should  at- 
tempt to  leave  them — and  then  the  oath.     He  might  possibly  have 
released  himself  from  its  obligations,  when  it  became  necessary  for 
the  interests  of  his  country  ;  but  no  honorable  man  can  well  bear  to 
be  driven  to  an  emergency,  in  which  he  must  violate  an  oath,  how- 
ever reluctantly  it  was  taken.     He  felt  that  there  was  no  retreating, 
when  there  came  a  heavy  shock,  as  if  something  falling  against  the 
sides  of  the  house ;  their  practised  ear  at  once  detected  the  alarm 
gun ;   and  their  conductor,  throwing  down  the  old  Bible,  which  he 
had  held  all  the  while  impatiently  in  his  hand,  directed  the  party 
to  follow  him  in  close  order,  and  immediately  quitted  the  house, 
taking  with  him  his  dark  lantern. 

They  went  on  with  great  despatch,  but  not  without  difficulty 
Sometimes  their  footing  would  give  way  on  some  sandy  bank  or 
slippery  field ;  and  when  their  path  led  through  the  woods,  the  wet 
boughs  dashed  heavily  in  their  faces.  Lee  felt  that  he  might  have 
deserted  his  precious  companions  while  they  were  in  this  hurry  and 
alarm  ;  but  he  felt,  that,  as  yet,  he  had  made  no  discoveries ;  and 
however  dangerous  his  situation  was,  he  could  not  bear  to  confess 
that  he  had  not  nerve  to  carry  it  through.  On  he  went,  therefore, 
for  two  or  three  hours,  and  was  beginning  to  sink  with  fatigue,  when 
the  barking  of  a  dog  brought  the  party  to  a  stand.  Their  conductor 
gave  a  low  whistle,  which  was  answered  at  no  great  distance,  and  a 
figure  came  forward  in  the  darkness,  who  whispered  to  their  guide, 
and  then  led  the  way  up  to  a  building,  which  seemed  by  the  shadowy 


RETOLUTIONARY  ADVENTURE.  191 

outline,  to  be  n  large  stone  barn.  They  entered  it,  and  were  sever- 
ally placed  in  small  nooks  wliere  they  could  feel  that  the  hay  was 
all  around  them,  except  on  the  side  of  the  wall.  Shortly  after,  some 
provisions  were  brought  to  them  with  the  same  silence,  and  it  was 
signified  to  them  that  they  were  to  remain  concealed  through  the 
whole  of  the  conring  day. 

Through  a  crevice  in  the  wall  Lee  could  discover,  as  the  day 
came  on,  that  the  barn  was  attached  to  a  small  farm-house.  He  was 
so  near  the  house  that  he  could  overhear  the  conversation  which 
was  carried  on  about  the  door.  The  morning  rose  clear,  and  it  was 
evident  from  the  enquiries  of  horsemen  who  occasionally  gallopped 
up  to  the  door,  that  the  country  was  alarmed.  The  farmer  gave 
short  and  surly  replies,  as  if  unwilling  to  be  taken  off  from  his 
labor ;  but  the  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  eager  in  their  ques- 
tions, and,  from  the  answers,  Lee  gathered  that  the  means  by  which 
t.e  and  his  companions  had  escaped  were  as  mysterious  as  ever. 

The  next  night,  when  all  was  quiet,  they  resumed  their  march, 
and  explained  to  Lee  that,  as  he  was  not  with  them  in  their  con- 
spiracy and  was  accidentally  associa'ted  with  them  in  their  escape, 
they  should  take  the  precaution  to  keep  him  before  them,  just  be- 
hind the  guide.  He  submitted  without  opposition,  though  the  ar- 
rangement considerably  lessened  the  chances  in  favor  of  his  escape. 
He  observed  from  the  direction  of  the  stars,  that  they  did  not  move 
in  a  direct  line  toward  the  Delaware,  but  they  changed  their  coursf 
so  often  that  he  could  not  conjecture  at  what  point  they  intended  t/. 
strike  the  river.  He  endeavored,  whenever  any  peculiar  object  ap- 
peared, to  fix  it  in  his  memory  as  well  as  the  darkness  would  permit, 
and  succeeded  better  than  could  have  been  expected,  considering  the 
agitated  state  in  which  he  traveled. 

For  several  nights  they  went  on  in  this  manner,  being  delivered 
over  to  different  persons,  from  time  to  time;  and  as  Lee  could 
gather  from  their  whispering  conversation,  they  were  regularly  em- 
ployed on  occasions  like  the  present,  and  well  rewarded  by  the 
British  for  their  services.  Their  employment  was  full  of  danger ; 
and  though  they  seemed  like  desperate  men,  he  could  observe  that 
they  never  remitted  their  prec-'aitions.  They  were  concealed  by 
day  in  barns — cellars — caves  i.ade  for  the  purpose,  and  similar  re- 
treats, and  one  day  was  passed  in  a  tomb,  the  dimensions  of  which 
had  been  enlarged,  and  the  inmates,  if  there  had  been  any,  banished 
to  make  room  for  the  living.     The  burying  grounds  were  a  favorite 


192  REVOLUTIONARY    ADVENTURE, 

retreat,  and  on  more  occasions  than  one  they  were  obliged  to  refiort 
to  superstitious  alarms  to  remove  intruders  upon  their  path  ;  their 
success  fully  justified  the  experiment,  and,  unpleasantly  situated  as 
he  was,  in  the  prospect  of  soon  being  a  ghost  himself,  he  could  not 
avoid  laughing  at  the  expedition  with  which  old  and  young  fled  from 
the  fancied  apparitions  under  clouds  of  night,  wishing  to  meet  such 
enemies,  like  Ajax,  in  the  face  of  day. 

Though  the  distance  to  the  Delaware  was  not  great,  they  had  now 
been  twelve  days  on  the  road,  and  such  was  the  vigilance  and  su- 
perstition prevailing  throughout  the  country,  that  they  almost  des- 
paired of  effecting  their  object.  The  conductor  grew  impatient,  and 
Lee's  companions,  at  least  one  of  them,  became  ferocious.  There 
was,  as  we  have  said,  something  unpleasant  to  him  in  the  glances  of 
this  fellow  toward  him,  which  became  more  and  more  fi.erce  as  they 
went  on ;  but  it  did  not  appear  whether  it  were  owing  to  circum- 
stances or  actual  suspicion.  It  so  happened  that,  on  the  twelfth 
night,  Lee  was  placed  in  a  barn,  while  the  rest  of  the  party  shel- 
tered themselves  in  the  cellar  of  a  little  stone  church,  where  they 
could  talk  and  act  with  more  freedom,  both  because  the  solitude  of 
the  church  was  not  often  disturbed  even  on  the  Sabbath — and  be- 
cause even  the  proprietors  did  not  know  that  illegal  hands  had  add- 
ed a  cellar  to  the  conveniences  of  the  building. 

The  party  were  seated  here  as  the  day  broke,  and  the  light,  which 
struggled  in  through  crevices  opened  for  the  purpose,  showed  a  low 
room  about  twelve  feet  square,  with  a  damp  floor  and  large  patches 
of  white  mould  upon  the  walls.  Finding,  probably,  that  the  pave- 
ment afforded  no  accommodations  for  sleeping,  the  worthies  were  seat- 
ed each  upon  a  little  cask  which  seemed  like  those  used  for  gunpowder. 
Here  they  were  smoking  pipes  with  great  diligence,  and,  at  inter- 
vals not  distant,  applying  a  huge  canteen  to  their  mouths,  from 
which  they  drank  with  upturned  faces  expressive  of  solemn  satisfac- 
tion. While  they  were  thus  engaged,  the  short  soldier  asked  them 
in  a  careless  way,  if  they  knew  whom  they  had  in  their  party.  The 
others  started,  and  took  their  pipes  from  their  mouths  to  ask  him 
what  he  meant.  "  I  mean,"  said  he,  "  that  we  are  honored  with  the 
company  of  Captain  Lee,  of  the  rebel  army.  The  rascal  once  pun- 
ished me,  and  I  never  mistook  my  man  when  I  had  a  debt  of  that 
kind  to  pay.     Now  I  shall  have  my  revenge." 

The  others  hastened  to  express  their  disgust  at  his  ferocity,  say- 
ing, that  if,  as  he  said,  their  companion  was  an  American  officer 


REVOLUTIONARY  ADVENTURE.  193 

all  they  bad  to  do  was  to  watch  him  elosel}-.  They  said  that,  as  he 
had  come  among  them  uninvited,  he  must  go  with  them  to  New- 
York  and  take  the  consequences ;  but  meantime,  it  was  their  in 
terest  not  to  seem  to  suspect  him,  otherwise  he  might  give  an  alarm, 
whereas  it  was  evidently  his  intention  to  go  with  them  till  they  were 
ready  to  embark  for  New- York.  The  other  persisted  in  saying  that 
he  would  have  his  revenge  with  his  own  hand,  upon  which  the  con- 
ductor, drawing  a  pistol  declared  to  him  that  if  he  saw  the  least  at- 
tempt to  injure  Captain  Lee,  or  any  conduct  which  would  lead  him 
to  suspect  that  his  disguise  was  discovered,  he  would  that  moment 
shoot  him  through  the  head.  The  soldier  put  his  hand  upon  his 
knife  with  au  ominous  scowl  upon  his  conductor,  but  seeing  that  he 
had  to  do  with  one  who  was  likely  to  be  as  good  as  his  word,  he  re- 
strained himself,  and  began  to  arrange  some  rubbish  to  serve  him  for 
a  bed.  The  other  soldier  followed  his  example,  and  their  guide 
withdrew,  locking  the  door  after  him. 

The  next  night  they  went  on  as  usual,  but  the  manner  of  their 
conductor  showed  that  there  was  more  danger  than  before;  in  fact, 
he  explained  to  the  party,  that  they  were  now  not  far  from  the  Dela- 
ware, and  hoped  to  reach  it  before  midnight.  They  occasionally 
heard  the  report  of  a  musket,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  some 
movement  was  going  on  in  the  country.  Thus  warned,  they  quick- 
ened their  steps,  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  saw  a  gleam  of 
broad  clear  light  before  them,  such  as  is  reflected  from  cVm  waters 
even  in  the  darkest  night.  They  moved  up  to  it  with  deep  silence  ; 
there  were  various  emotions  in  their  breasts ;  Lee  was  hoping  for  an 
opportunity  to  escape  from  an  enterprise  which  was  growing  too 
serious,  and  the  principal  objects  of  which  were  already  answered 
the  others  were  anxious  lest  some  accident  might  have  happened  ta 
the  boat  on  which  they  depended  for  crossing  the  stream. 

When  they  came  to  the  bank  there  were  no  traces  of  a  boat  on 
the  waters.  Their  conductor  stood  still  for  a  moment  in  dismay; 
but,  recollecting  himself,  he  said  it  was  possible  it  might  have  been 
secured  lower  down  the  stream,  and,  forgetting  every  thing  else,  ho 
directed  the  larger  soldier  to  accompny  him,  and,  giving  a  pistol  to 
the  other,  he  whispered,  "  if  the  rebel  officer  attempts  to  betray  us, 
shoot  him ;  if  not,  you  will  not,  for  your  own  sake,  make  any  noise 
to  show  where  we  are.''  In  the  same  instant  they  departed,  and  Lee 
was  left  alone  with  the  ruffian. 

He  had  before  suspected  that  the  fellow  knew  him,   and   now 


194  •     REVOLUTIONARY    ADVENTURE. 

doubts  were  changed  to  certainty  at  once.  Dark  as  it  was,  it 
seemed  as  if  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  now  he  felt  that  revenge  was 
in  his  power.  Lee  was  as  brave  as  any  officer  in  the  army,  but  he 
was  unarmed,  and  though  he  was  strong,  his  adversary  was  still 
more  powerful.  While  he  stood,  uncertain  what  to  do,  the  fellow 
seemed  enjoying  the  prospect  of  revenge,  as  he  looked  upon  him 
with  a  steady  eye.  Though  the  officer  stood  to  appearance  un- 
moved, tlio  sweat  rolled  in  heavy  drops  from  his  brow.  He  soon 
took  his  resolution,  and  sprang  upon  his  adversary  with  the  inten- 
tion of  wresting  the  pistol  from  his  hand ;  but  the  other  was  upon 
his  guard,  and  aimed  with  such  precision,  that,  had  the  pistol  been 
charged  with  a  bullet,  that  moment  would  have  been  his  last.  But 
it  seemed  that  the  conductor  had  trusted  to  the  sight  of  his  weapons 
to  render  the  use  of  them  unnecessary,  and  had  therefore  loaded 
them  only  with  powder ;  as  it  was,  the  shock  threw  Lee  to  the 
ground ;  but  fortunately,  as  the  fellow  dropped  the  pistol,  it  fell 
where  Lee  could  reach  it,  and  as  his  adversary  stooped,  and  was 
drawing  his  knife  from  his  bosom,  Lee  was  able  to  give  him  a  stun- 
nino-  blow.  He  immediately  threw  himself  upon  the  assassin,  and  a 
long  and  bloody  struggle  began ;  they  were  so  nearly  matched  in 
strength  and  advantao-e,  that  neither  dared  unclench  his  hold  for  the 
sake  of  grasping  the  knife ;  the  blood  gushed  from  their  mouths, 
and  the  combat  would  have  probably  ended  in  favor  of  the  assassin, 
when  steps  and  voices  were  heard  advancing,  and  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  hands  of  a  party  of  countrymen,  who  were  armed  for 
the  occasion,  and  were  scouring  the  banks  of  the  river.  They  were 
forcibly  torn  apart,  but  so  exhausted  and  breathless,  that  neither 
could  make  any  explanation,  and  they  submitted  quietly  to  the  dis- 
posal of  their  captors. 

The  party  of  armed  countrymen,  though  they  had  succeeded  in 
their  attempt,  and  were  sufficiently  triumphant  on  the  occasion, 
were  sorely  perplexed  to  determine  how  to  dispose  of  their  prison- 
ers. After  some  discussion,  one  of  them  proposed  to  throw  the 
decision  upon  the  wisdom  of  the  nearest  magistrate.  They  accord- 
ingly proceeded  with  their  prisoners  to  his  mansion,  about  two  miles 
distant,  and  called  on  him  to  rise  and  attend  to  business.  A  win- 
dow was  hastily  thrown  up,  and  the  justice  put  forth  his  night  cap- 
ped head,  and,  with  more  wrath  than  became  his  dignity,  ordered 
them  off;  and,  in  requital  for  their  calling  him  out  of  bed  in  the 
cold,  generously  washed  them  in  the  warmest  place  which  then  oc- 


SADNESS.  195 

curred  to  his  imagination.  However,  resistance  was  vain ;  lie  was 
compelled  to  rise  ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  prisoners  were  brought  before 
him,  he  ordered  them  to  be  taken  in  irons  to  the  prison  at  Philadel- 
phia. Lee  improved  the  opportunity  to  take  the  old  gentleman 
aside,  and  told  him  who  he  was  and  why  he  was  thus  disguised ; 
the  justice  only  interrupted  him  with  the  occasional  inquiry, 
*•  Most  done  ?"  When  he  had  finished,  the  magistrate  told  him 
that  his  story  was  very  well  made,  and  told  in  a  manner  very  cred- 
itable to  his  address,  and  that  he  should  give  it  all  the  weight  which 
it  seemed  to  require.     All  Lee's  remonstrances  were  unavailing. 

As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  lodged  iu  prison,  Lee  prevailed  on 
the  jailer  to  carry  a  note  to  Gen.  Lincoln,  informing  him  of  his 
condition.  The  General  received  it  as  he  was  dressing  in  the 
morning,  and  immediately  sent  one  of  his  aids  to  the  jail.  That 
officer  could  not  believe  his  eyes  when  he  saw  Captain  Lee.  His 
imiform,  worn  out  when  he  assumed  it,  was  now  hanging  in  rags 
about  him,  and  he  had  not  been  shaved  for  a  fortnight ;  he  wished, 
very  naturally,  to  improve  his  appearance  before  presenting  himself 
before  the  Secretary  of  War ;  but  the  orders  were  peremptory  to 
bring  him  as  he  was.  The  General  loved  a  joke  full  well ;  his 
laughter  was  hardly  exceeded  by  the  report  of  his  own  cannon ;  and 
long  and  loud  did  he  laugh  that  day. 

»     ■     ^     B     ♦        


SADNESS. 


There  is  a  mysterious  feeling  that  frequently  passes  like  a  cloud 
over  the  spirit.  It  comes  upon  the  soul  in  the  busy  bustle  of  life, 
in  the  social  circle,  in  the  calm  and  silent  retreat  of  solitude.  Its 
power  is  alike  supreme  over  the  weak  and  the  iron-hearted.  At  one 
time  it  is  caused  by  the  flitting  of  a  single  thought  across  the  mind. 
Again,  a  sound  will  come,  booming  across  the  ocean  of  memory, 
gloomy  and  solemn  as  the  death  knell,  overshadowing  all  the  bright 
hopes  and  sunny  feelings  of  the  heart.  Who  can  describe  it,  and 
yet  who  has  not  felt  its  bewildering  influence  ?  Still  it  is  a  delicious 
sort  of  sorrow  :  and  like  a  cloud  dimming  the  sunshine  of  the  river, 
although  causing  a  momentary  shade  of  gloom,  it  enhances  the 
beauty  of  returning  brightness 


THE    BEREAVED    SISTER 


Tn  tlie  spring  of  18 — ,  I  contracted  an  acquaintance  in  one  of  the 
cities  of  the  South,  with  a  gentleman,  who  had  removed  from  Eng- 
land to  this  country  with  two  small  children,  the  one  a  boy  of  ten, 
and  the  other  a  girl  of  nine  years  of  age.  These  children  were  the 
most  lovely  beings  I  ever  saw.  Their  extreme  beauty,  their  deep 
and  artless  affection,  and  their  frequent  bursts  of  childish  and  inno> 
cent  mirth,  made  them  as  dear  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  the  companion 
of  their  infancy.  They  were  happy  in  themselves,  happy  in  each 
other,  and  in  the  whole  world  of  life  and  nature  around  them.  I 
had  known  the  family  but  a  few  months,  when  my  friend  was  com- 
pelled to  make  a  sudden  and  unexpected  voyage  to  South  America. 
His  feelings  were  embittered  by  the  thought  of  leaving  his  mother- 
less children  behind  him,  and  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  embarking  for 
Liverpool,  I  promised  to  take  them  to  their  relations. 

My  departure  was  delayed  two  weeks.  During  that  period,  I 
lived  under  the  same  roof  with  the  little  ones  that  had  been  con- 
signed to  my  charge.  For  a  few  days  they  were  pensive,  and  made 
frequent  enquiries  for  their  absent  father,  but  their  sorrows  were 
easily  assuaged,  and  regret  for  his  absence  changed  into  a  pleasant 
anticipation  of  his  return.  The  ordinary  sorrows  of  childhood  are 
but  dews  upon  the  eagle's  plumage,  which  vanish  at  the  moment, 
when  the  proud  bird  springs  upward  into  the  air  to  woo  the  first 
beautiful  flashes  of  the  morning. 

The  day  of  our  departure  at  last  arrived,  and  we  set  sail  on  a 
quiet  afternoon  of  summer.  It  was  a  scene  of  beauty,  and  my  heart 
fluttered  as  wildly  and  joyously  as  the  wing  of  a  young  bird  in 
spring-time.  It  seemed  in  truth  as  if  "  man's  control  had  stopped 
with  the  shore,"  that  was  retreating  behind  us,  and  left  the  world 
of  waters  to  give  back  the  blue  of  the  upper  skies  as  purely  and 
peacefully  as  at  the  first  holy  sabbath  of  creation.  The  distant  hillsi 
bent  their  pale  blue  tops  to  the  waters,  and,  as  the  great  Sun,  like 
the  image  of  his  Creator,  sunk  in  the  west,  successive  shadows  oi 
gold,  and  crimson,  and  purple,  came  floating  over  the  wares,  like 
barks  from  a  fairy  land.     My  young  companions  gazed  on  these 


THE    BEREAVED    SISTER.  197 

scenes  steadily  and  silently,  and,  when  the  last  tints  of  the  dim 
shore  were  melting  into  shadow,  they  took  each  other's  hands,  and 
a  few  natural  tears  gushed  forth  as  an  adieu  to  the  land  they  had 
loved. 

Soon  after  sunset,  I  persuaded  my  little  friends  to  let  me  lead 
them  to  the  cabin,  and  then  returned  to  look  out  again  upon  the 
ocean.  In  about  half  an  hour,  as  I  was  standing  musingly  and 
apart,  I  felt  my  hand  gently  pressed,  and  on  turning  round,  saw 
that  the  girl  had  stolen  alone  to  my  side.  In  a  few  moments,  the 
evening  star  began  to  twinkle  from  the  edging  of  a  violet  cloud.  At 
first,  it  gleamed  fiiintly  and  at  intervals,  but  anon  it  came  brightly 
out,  and  shone  like  a  holy  thing  upon  the  brow  of  evening.  The 
girl  at  my  side  gazed  upon  it,  and  hailed  it  with  a  tone,  which  told 
that  a  thought  of  rapture  was  at  her  heart.  She  inquired,  with 
simplicity  and  eagerness,  whether  in  the  far  land  to  which  we  were 
going,  that  same  bright  star  would  be  visible,  and  seemed  to  regard 
it  as  another  friend,  that  was  to  be  with  her  in  her  long  and  lonely 
journey. 

The  first  week  of  our  voyage  was  unattended  by  any  important 
incident.  The  sea  was  at  times,  wild  and  stormy,  but  again  it  would 
sink  to  repose,  and  spread  itself  out  in  beauty  to  the  verge  of  the 
distant  horizon.  On  the  eighth  day  the  boy  arose  pale  and  dejected, 
and  complained  of  indisposition.  On  the  following  morning,  he  was 
confined  by  a  fever  to  his  bed,  and  much  doubt  was  expressed  as  to 
his  fate,  by  the  physician  of  the  vessel.  I  can  never  forget  the  vis- 
ible agony,  th2  look  of  utter  woe,  that  appeared  upon  the  face  of 
the  little  girl  when  the  conviction  of  her  brother's  danger  came 
slowly  home  upon  her  thoughts.  She  wept  not — she  complained  not 
— but,  hour  after  hour,  she  sat  by  the  bed  of  the  young  sufl"erer — 
an  image  of  grief  and  beautiful  affection.  The  boy  became  daily 
more  feeble  and  emaciated.  He  could  not  return  the  long  and  burn- 
ing kisses  of  his  sister,  and,  at  last,  a  faint  heaving  of  his  breast, 
and  the  tender  eloquence  of  his  half  closed  eye,  and  a  flush,  at  in- 
tervals, upon  his  wasted  cheek  like  the  first  violet  tint  of  a  morning 
cloud,  were  all  that  told  that  he  had  not  passed  "  the  first  dark  day 
of  nothingness." 

The  twelfth  evening  of  our  absence  from  land  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful I  had  ever  known,  and  I  persuaded  the  girl  to  go  for  a  short 
time  upon  deck,  that  her  own  fevered  brow  might  be  fanned  by  the 
twilight  breeze.     The  sun  had  gone  down  in  glory,  and  the  traces  of 


19S  THE    BEREAVED    SISTER, 

his  blood-rcd  setting  were  still  visible  upon  the  western  waters. 
Slowly  but  brilliantly  the  many  stars  were  gathering  themselves 
together  above,  and  another  sky  swelled  out  in  softened  beauty  be- 
neath, and  the  foam  upon  the  crests  of  the  waves  was  lighted  up 
like  wreaths  of  snow.  There  was  music  in  every  wave,  and  its  wild 
sweet  tones  came  floating  down  from  the  fluttering  pennon  above  us, 
like  the  sound  of  a  gentle  wind  amid  a  cypress  grove.  But  neither 
music  nor  beauty  had  a  spell  for  the  heart  of  my  little  friend.  I 
talked  to  her  of  the  glories  of  the  sky  and  sea — I  pointed  her  to 
the  star,  on  which  she  had  always  loved  to  look — but  her  only  an- 
swer was  a  sigh — and  I  returned  with  her  to  the  bedside  of  her 
brother.  I  perceived  instantly  that  he  was  dying.  There  was  no 
visible  struggle — but  a  film  was  creeping  over  his  eye,  and  the  hec- 
tic flush  of  his  cheek  was  fast  deepening  into  purple.  I  know  not 
whether  at  first  his  sister  perceived  the  change  in  his  appearance. 
She  took  her  seat  at  hiB  side,  pressed  his  pale  lips  to  her  own,  and 
then,  as  usual,  let  her  melancholy  eye  rest  fixedly  upon  his  counte- 
nance. Suddenly  his  looks  brightened  for  a  moment,  and  he  spoke 
his  sister's  name.  She  replied  with  a  passionate  caress,  and  looked 
up  to  my  face,  as  if  to  implore  encouragement.  I  knew  that  her 
hopes  were  but  a  mockery.  A  moment  more,  and  a  convulsive 
quiver  passed  over  the  lips  of  the  dying  boy — a  slight  shudder  ran 
through  his  frame— and  all  was  still.  The  girl  kifew,  as  if  intui- 
tively, that  her  brother  was  dead.  She  sat  in  tearless  silence — but 
I  saw  that  the  waters  of  bitterness  were  gathering  fearfully  at  their 
fountain.  At  last,  she  raised  her  hands  with  a  sudden  efi"ort,  and 
pressing  them  upon  her  forehead,  wept  with  the  uncontrollable 
agony  of  despair. 

On  the  next  day,  the  corse  of  the  dead  boy  was  to  be  committed 
to  the  ocean.  The  little  girl  knew  that  it  must  be  so,  but  she 
strove  to  drive  the  thought  away,  as  if  it  had  been  an  unreal  and 
terrible  vision.  When  the  appointed  hour  was  at  hand,  she  came 
and  beffp-ed  me,  with  a  tone  that  seemed  less  like  a  human  voice 
than  the  low  cadence  of  a  disembodied  spirit,  to  go  and  look  upon 
her  brother  and  see  if  he  were  indeed  dead.  I  could  not  resist  her 
entreaties,  but  went  with  her  to  gaze  upon  the  sleeping  dust,  to 
which  all  the  tendrils  of  her  life  seemed  bound.  She  paused  by  the 
bedside,  and  I  almost  deemed  that  her  very  existence  would  pass 
off  in  that  long  and  fixed  gaze.  She  moved  not — spoke  not — till 
the  form  she  loved  was  taken  away  to  be  let  down  into  the  ocean. 


HINTS    FOR    LOVERS.  199 

Then  indeed  slio  arose,  and  followed  her  lifeless  brother  with  a 
calmness  that  might  have  been  from  Heaven.  The  body  sunk  slowly 
and  solemnly  beneath  the  waves — a  few  long,  bright  ringlets 
streamed  out  upon  the  waters — a  single  white  and  beautiful  glimpse 
came  dimly  up  through  the  glancing  billows,  and  all  that  had  once 
been  joy  and  beauty,  vanished  forever. 

During  the  short  residue  of  our  voyage,  the  bereaved  sister 
seemed  fading  away  as  calmly  and  beautifully  as  a  cloud  in  the 
summer  zenith.  Her  heart  had  lost  its  communion  with  nature, 
and  she  would  look  down  into  the  sea  and  murmur  incoherently  of 
its  cold  and  solitary  depths,  and  call  her  brother's  name,  and  then 
weep  herself  into  calmness.  Soon  afterward  I  left  her  with  her 
friends.  I  know  not  whether  she  is  still  a  blossom  of  the  earth,  or 
■whether  she  has  long  since  gone  to  be  nurtured  in  a  holier  realm. 
But  I  love  the  memory  of  that  beautiful  and  stricken  one.  Her 
loveliness,  her  innocence,  and  her  deep  and  holy  feelings,  still  come 
back  to  me  in  their  glory  and  quietude,  like  a  rainbow  on  a  sum- 
mer cloud,  that  has  showered  and  passed  off  forever. 


. »  >  <^  t  » 


HINTS    FOR    LOVERS 


If  a  youth  is  wooingly  disposed  towards  any  damsel,  as  he  values 
his  happiness,  let  him  follow  my  advice ;  call  on  the  lady  when  she 
least  expects  him,  and  take  note  of  the  appearance  of  all  that  is 
under  her  control.  Observe  if  the  shoe  fits  neatly — if  the  gloves 
are  clean,  and  the  hair  well  polished.  And  I  would  forgive  a  man 
for  breaking  off  an  engagement,  if  he  discovered  a  greasy  novel  hid 
away  under  the  cushion  of  a  sofa  or  a  hole  in  the  garniture  of  the 
prettiest  foot  in  the  world.  Slovenliness  will  ever  be  avoided  by  a 
well  regulated  mind,  as  if  it  were  a  pestilence,  A  woman  cannot 
always  be  what  is  called  dressed,  particularly  one  in  middling  or 
humble  life,  where  her  duty,  and  it  is  consequently  to  be  hoped, 
her  pleasure  lies  in  superintending  and  assisting  in  all  domestic 
matters ;  but  she  may  be  always  neat — well  appointed.  And  as 
certainly  as  a  virtuous  woman  is  a  crown  of  glory  to  her  husband, 
so  surely  is  a  slovenly  one  a  crown  of  thorns. — Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall. 


MIDNIGHT    MUSINGS. 


BY    WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


I  Au  now  alone  in  my  chamber.  The  family  have  long  since  re« 
tired.  I  have  heard  their  steps  die  away,  and  the  doors  clap  to  after 
them.  The  murmur  of  voices  and  the  peal  of  remote  laughter  no 
lonjier  reach  the  ear.  The  clock  from  the  church,  in  which  so  many 
of  the  former  inhabitants  of  this  house  lie  buried,  has  chimed  the 
awful  hour  of  midnight. 

I  have  sat  by  the  window  and  mused  upon  the  dusky  landscape, 

watching  the  lights  disappearing  one  by  one  from  the  distant  village  ; 

and  the  moon,  rising  in  her  silent  majesty,  and  leading  up  all  the 

silver  pomp  of  heaven.     As  I  have  gazed  upon  these  quiet  groves 

and  shadowing  lawns,  silvered    over   and  imperfectly   lighted    by 

streaks  of  dewy  moonshine,  my  mind  has  been  crowded  by  "  thick 

coming  fancies"  concerning  the  spiritual  beings  which 

'' Walk  the  earth 

Unseen  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

Are  there,  indeed,  such  beings  ?  Is  this  space  between  us  and 
the  Deity  filled  up  by  innumerable  orders  of  spiritual  beings,  form- 
ing the  same  gradations  between  the  human  soul  and  divine  per- 
fection, that  we  see  prevailing  from  humanity  down  to  the  meanest 
insect  ?  It  is  a  sublime  and  beautiful  doctrine  inculcated  by  the 
early  fathers  that  there  are  guardian  angels  appointed  to  watch  over 
cities  and  nations,  to  take  care  of  good  men,  and  to  guard  and 
guide  the  steps  of  helpless  infancy.  Even  the  doctrine  of  departed 
spirits  returiiing  to  visit  the  scenes  and  beings  which  were  dear  to 
them  during  the  bodies'  existence,  though  it  has  been  debased  by 
the  absurd  superstitions  of  the  vulgar,  in  itself  is  awfully  solemn 
and  sublime. 

However  lightly  it  may  be  ridiculed,  yet,  the  attention  involun- 
tarily yielded  to  it  whenever  it  is  made  the  subject  of  serious  dis- 
cussion, and  its  prevalence  in  all  ages  and  countries,  even  among 
newly  discovered  nations  that  have  had  no  previous  interchange  of 
thought  with  other  parts  of  the  world,  prove  it  to  be  one  of  those 


MIDNIGHT    MUSJNGS.  20  l 

mysterious  and  instinctive  beliefs  to  winch,  if  left  to  ourselves,  we 
should  naturally  incline. 

In  spite  of  all  the  pride  of  reason  and  philosophy,  a  vague  doubt 
will  still  lurk  in  the  mind,  and  perhaps  will  never  be  eradicated,  ay 
it  is  a  matter  that  does  not  admit  of  positive  demonstration.  AVho 
yet  has  been  able  to  comprehend  and  describe  the  nature  of  the 
soul ;  its  mysterious  connexion  with  the  body ;  or  in  what  part  of 
the  frame  it  is  situated  ?  We  know  merely  that  it  does  exist ;  but 
whence  it  came,  and  when  it  entered  into  us,  and  how  it  is  retained, 
and  where  it  is  seated,  and  how  it  operates,  are  all  matters  of  mere 
speculation,  and  contradictory  theories.  If,  then,  we  are  thus  Igno- 
rant of  this  spiritual  essence,  even  while  it  forms  a  part  of  ourselves 
and  Is  continually  present  to  our  consciousness,  how  can  we  pretend 
to  ascertain  or  deny  its  powers  and  operations,  when  released  from 
its  fleshly  prison-house  ? 

Every  thing  connected  with  our  spiritual  nature  is  full  of  doubt 
and  difficulty.  "  We  are  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,"  we  are 
surrounded  by  mysteries,  and  we  are  mysteries  even  to  ourselves. 
It  is  more  the  manner  in  which  this  superstition  has  been  degraded, 
than  its  intrinsic  absurdity,  that  has  brought  it  into  contempt. 
Raise  it  above  the  frivolous  purposes  to  which  it  has  been  applied, 
strip  it  of  the  gloom  and  horror  with  which  it  has  been  enveloped, 
and  there  is  none,  in  the  whole  circle  of  visionary  creeds,  that  could 
more  delightfully  elevate  the  imagination,  or  more  tenderly  affect 
the  heart.  It  would  become  a  sovereign  comfort  at  the  bed  of  death, 
soothing  the  bitter  tear  wrung  from  us  by  the  agony  of  mortal  sep- 
aration. 

y>liat  could  be  more  consoling  than  the  idea  that  the  souls  of 
those  we  once  loved  were  permitted  to  return  and  watch  over  our 
welfare  ? — that  affectionate  and  guardian  spirits  sat  by  our  pillow 
when  we  slept,  keeping  a  vigil  over  our  most  helpless  hours  ? — that 
beauty  and  innocence,  which  had  languished  into  the  tomb,  yet 
smiled  unseen  around  us,  revealing  themselves  in  those  blest  dreams 
wherein  we  live  over  again  the  hours  of  past  endearments  ?  A  be- 
lief of  this  kind  would,  I  should  think,  be  a  new  incentive  to  virtue, 
rendering  us  circumspect,  even  in  our  most  secret  moments,  from 
the  idea  that  those  we  once  loved  and  honored  were  invisible  wit- 
nesses of  all  our  actions. 

It  would  take  away,  too,  from  that  loneliness  and  destitution, 
which  we  are  apt  to  feel  more  and  more  as  we  get  on  in  our  pil- 


202  MIDNIGHT    MUSINGS. 

grimagc  througli  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  and  find  that  those 
w^ho  set  forward  with  us  lovingly  and  cheerfully,  on  the  journey 
have  one  by  one  dropped  away  from  our  side.  Place  the  supersti- 
tion in  this  light,  and  I  confess  I  should  like  to  be  a  believer  in  it. 
I  see  nothing  in  it  that  is  incompatible  with  the  tender  and  merciful 
nature  of  our  religion,  or  revolting  to  the  wishes  and  affections  of 
the  heart. 

There  arc  departed  beings  that  I  have  loved  as  I  never  again 
shall  love  in  this  world ;  that  have  loved  me  as  I  never  again  shall 
be  loved.  If  such  beings  do  even  retain  in  their  blessed  spheres  the 
attachments  which  they  felt  on  earth ;  if  they  take  interest  in  the 
poor  concerns  of  transient  mortality,  and  are  permitted  to  hold 
communion  with  those  whom  they  have  loved  on  earth,  I  feel  as  if 
now,  at  this  deep  hour  of  night,  in  this  silence  and  solitude,  I  could 
receive  their  visitation  with  the  most  solemn  but  unalloyed  delight. 

In  truth,  such  visitations  would  be  too  happy  for  this  world : 
they  would  take  away  from  us  the  bonds  and  barriers  that  hem  us 
in  and  keep  us  from  each  other.  Our  existence  is  doomed  to  be 
made  up  of  transient  embraces  and  long  separations.  The  most  in- 
timate friendship — of  what  brief  and  scattered  portions  of  time  does 
it  consist  ?  We  take  each  other  by  the  hand  ;  and  we  exchange  a 
few  words  and  looks  of  kindness;  and  we  rejoice  together  for  a  few 
short  moments,  and  then  days,  months,  years  intervene,  and  we 
have  no  intercourse  with  each  other.  Or  if  we  dwell  together  for  a 
season,  the  grave  soon  closes  its  gates  and  cuts  off  all  further  com- 
munion ;  and  our  spirits  must  remain  in  separation  and  widowhood, 
until  they  meet  again  in  that  more  perfect  state  of  being,  where 
soul  shall  dwell  with  soul,  and  there  shall  be  no  such  thing  as  death, 
or  absence,  or  any  other  interruption  of  our  union. 


Nothing  is  better  adapted  to  give  the  last  polish  to  the  educa- 
tion of  a  young  man  than  the  conversation  of  virtuous  and  accom- 
i:)lishcd  women.  Their  society  serves  to  smooth  the  rough  edges  of 
our  character,  and  to  mellow  our  tempers.  In  short,  the  man  who 
has  never  been  acquainted  with  females  of  the  better  class,  is  not 
only  deprived  of  many  of  the  purest  pleasures,  but  also  will  have 
little  success  in  social  life ;  and  I  should  not  like  to  be  connected 
by  the  bonds  of  friendship  with  the  man  who  has  a  bad  opinion  and 
speaks  ill  of  the  female  sex  in  general. 


THE    BROKEN    VOW. 


«  He  will  not  come  to-uiglit,"  said  Emma,  as  she  looked  out  of 
the  chamber  window  on  the  still  and  depopulated  streets,  and  saw 
the  dark  rain  clouds  gathering  in  the  sky ;   '<  he  will  not  come  to- 
night— it  is  past  the  hour — ha,  he  did  not  use  to  be  so  careful  about 
the  weather. .    But  I  will  not  indulge  in  disquietude — he  has  pro- 
mised"— the  words  died  upon  her  lips  ; — she  recollected  her  cold- 
ness— the  tone  of  ambiguity  with  which  that  promise  had  been  re- 
peated, when  Theodore  last  visited  her,  and  in  a  confused  and  em- 
barrassed manner,  though  with  much  regret  and  disappointment,  as- 
sured her  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to   conform  to  his  engage- 
ment, and  marry  her  at  the  time  appointed.     She  remembered  how 
her  heart  shrunk  within  her  at  the  moment,  and  the  strange  present- 
iment that  crossed  her  mind;   that  then,  for  the  first   time,  she 
thought  how  bitter  a  thing  must  be  disappointed  love — for  the  first 
time  felt  the  force  of  the  remark,  which  she  had  so   often  heard  : 
"  Men's  vows  are  brittle  things."     Still,  the  natural  buoyancy  of 
hei-  spirits  forbade  to  despond.     True,  he  had  broken  his  first  en- 
gagement, but  he  had  represented  to  her  the  imperious  necessity  of 
the  measure,  and  she  had  acquiesced  in  it.     True,  he  had  not  fixed 
the  more  distant  period ;  he  had  left  the  final  hour  indefinite — but 
she  had  his  promise ;  she  had  his  oath  ;  she  would  not  believe  him 
unfaithful  ;  she  could  not  believe  him  perjured.     At  last,  after  an 
absence  of  a  week,  which  seemed  to  her  a  year,  he  visited  the  house 
again,   he  once  more  mingled  with  the  smiling  family  circle;  he 
seemed  the  same  he  had  always  been,  and  she  was  happy.     But  he 
retired  before  the  family ;  this  cost  her  a  night's  rest — it  was  not 
his  usual  manner,  and  she  wondered  why,  at  this  particular  time, 
he  should  have  so  much  more  business  than  usual.     Still,  she  en- 
deavored to  put  the  most  favorable  construction  upon  every  thing ; 
she  strove  to  acquit  him  in  her  heart. 

But  love  has  eagle  eyes,  and  from  their  piercing  vigilance,  dupli- 
city must  be  coupled  with  most  consummate  art,  if  she  would  avoid 
detection.  Emma  was  caressed  by  a  large  circle  of  acquaintance. 
Theodore  was  also  a  favorite  ;  in  parties  they  frequently  met,  and 
there,  where  the  spirits  are  up,  and  all  reserve  thrown  ofi",  the  heart 


204  THE    BROKEN    VOW 

unmasks  itself.  There  Theodore  often  forgot  his  caution,  and  not 
only  abated  his  usual  display  of  partiality  for  Emma,  but  lavished 
hia  fondness  on  another.  The  generous  girl  forgave  him  until  for- 
giveness became  a  crime  committed  against  her  own  heart.  She  re- 
solved to  lead  a  more  secluded  life,  and  in  prosecuting  her  resolve, 
soon  found  ample  evidence  of  what  she  most  feared.  His  visits 
grew  less  and  less  frequent,  until,  at  length,  they  were  discontinued 
altogether.  Womanlike  in  the  deepest  of  her  sorrows,  she  retired 
as  it  were,  within  herself.  She  nursed  her  grief  in  secret,  and  put 
on  a  smile  as  sweet,  if  not  as  gay — before  the  world.  But  at  length 
her  feelings  gradually  obtained  the  victory.  The  agony  which 
pre3'ed  on  her  spirit  became  daily  more  apparent ;  the  paleness  of 
departed  health  blanched  her  cheek;  none  knew  her  grief  but  he 
who  was  its  cause  ;  and  he  shuddered  at  the  ruin  he  had  made. 

Her  friends  perceived,  with  concern,  the  rapid  decay  of  her  health, 
and  as  the  family  had  some  relatives  in  Bermuda,  they  resolved  to 
send  her  there.  The  voyage  had  a  salutary  effect ;  the  change  of 
scene  and  circumstances — new  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  the 
kindness  she  experienced  in  her  new  abode,  dispelled  much  of  the 
cherished  gloom  that  pressed  upon  her  heart,  and  added  life  to  her 
almost  inanimate  frame.  The  flow  of  health  gradually  returned,  and 
rihe  shone  in  the  maturity  of  her  beauty,  a  star  of  no  common  lustre 
in  the  fashionable  world  of  that  delightful  island.  A  year  had  not 
elapsed  before  the  hand  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  merchants  in  the 
Island  was  offered  her.  He  was  all  that  the  maiden  heart  desires — 
generous,  noble,  virtuous — and  of  years  suited  to  her  own.  She 
accepted — and  became  a  happy  wife.  Having  left  Philadelphia  with 
the  intention  of  returning,  she  now  waited  anxiously  for  the  oppor 
'■unity — but  a  variety  of  causes  prevented  it,  year  after  year.  A 
beautiful  family  of  children  grew  around  her — her  husband  was 
deeply  engaged  in  an  extensive  and  lucrative  business,  and  twelve 
years  passed  by  before  she  was  enabled  to  accomplish  her  wishes,  in 
all  which  time,  she  had  never  made  an  inquiry  about,  or  once  heard 
from  her  former  lover. 

Now  Mr.  Lofere  retired  from  business,  and  proposed  going  with 
their  family,  to  America.  They  reached  Philadelphia  in  safety,  and 
walked  up  Walnut-street  to  the  old  family  mansion.  It  remained 
unaltered;  her  father  and  mother,  the  servants,  her  former  friends 
who  remained,  all  welcomed  her  to  her  ancient  home.  Mr.  Lefere 
took  a  fine  establishment  in  Chesnut-streetand  lived  in  splendid  style. 

Emma  used  to  ride  out  daily  with  her  infant  family  ;  and  as  had 


THE   BROKEN    VOW.  205 

long  been  her  practice,  she  carefully  sought  out  such  objects  of  dis- 
tress, as  she  deemed  it  vrould  be  charitable  to  relieve.  One  day, 
riding  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  she  saw  a  poor  half  clothed  man, 
lying  on  the  ground,  and  a  tattered  child  crying  bitterly  by  his  side, 
to  which  he  paid  no  attention.  She  directed  the  coachman  to  stop, 
and  calling  the  man,  inquired  why  he  disregarded  the  child,  and 
whose  it  was  ?  ''  It  is  my  o\^^l,"  said  he.  "  I  came  out  hoping  to  get 
a  place  for  it  in  yonder  house,  and  I  could  not — it  is  almost  starved, 
and  I  have  not  the  means  to  procure  food  for  myself  or  it.  She 
gave  him  a  small  sum,  and  directed  him  to  call  at  her  house  the 
next  day.  He  received  it  with  tears,  and  promised  compliance.  At 
the  hour  appointed,  the  poor  man,  with  his  helpless  child,  waited  in 
the  kitchen  for  the  call  of  his  benefactress. 

Mrs.  Lefere  sent  for  them  into  the  breakfast  room,  as  soon  as  the 
family  had  dispersed,  and  desired  to  know  by  what  means  he  had 
brought  himself  to  poverty  and  want.  The  man  spoke  out  honestly. 
Intemperance,  he  said,  was  the  great  cause,  but  his  troubles  had 
driven  him  to  that — "  I  was  a  partner  in  a  mercantile  concern  ;  I 
married — I  was  deceived — the  mother  of  this  poor  child,  after  in- 
volving me  in  ruinous  debts,  left  me  with  a  libertine,  whose  ad- 
dresses she  had  long  received  ;  I  drowned  my  sorrows,  and  sunk  my 
character  in  habits  of  vice  and  intoxication.  I  have  been  twice  im- 
prisoned for  crime — I  am  destitute  of  friends  and  emploj'ment." 

"  And  what  is  your  name  ?"  asked  Emma.     "  Theodore  W ," 

lie  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  The  kind  lady  turned  pale 
and  trembled  ;  she  gazed  at  him — she  recognized  in  him  the  faith- 
less Theodore.  "  At  last  then,"  said  she,  affecting  to  be  calm, 
"  you  have  learned  to  keep  your  promises.  You  called  at  the  time 
appointed — I  will  provide  a  place  for  yourself  and  child."  "  Oh," 
said  he,  "  you  know  me.  When  you  asked  me  my  name,  I  dared 
not  tell  you  an  untruth  ;  but  I  hoped -it  had  been  forever  blotted 
from  your  memory ;  I  watched  your  fortune  ;  I  rejoiced  at  your 
prosperity  ; — I  cursed  my  own  folly,  until  I  had  exhausted  all  my 
powers.  But  broken  vows  come  back  to  their  authors  in  the  end, 
and  mine  has  ruined  me  forever."  He  covered  his  face  and  wept. 
She  left  him,  and  having  consulted  with  Mr.  Lefere,  procured  him 
a  situation  in  an  honest  occupation,  and  placed  the  child  at  school. 
Thus  was  the  maxim  verified,  ''all  is  for  the  best  to  the  innocent 
and  virtuous,"  and  thus  it  is  that  vice  works  out  its  own  reward  at 
last. 


LEAVE    ME    ALONE 


BY    ANNIE    DANE. 


Leave  me  alone,  it  is  the  midnight  hour, 

An  hour  of  wild  unrest ; 
While  dews  steal  softly  to  each  slumbering  fiov.'cr, 

They  shun  my  fevered  breast. 

Leave  me  alone,  throughout  my  heart  all  day 

Hath  earthly  visions  swept ; 
Floating  on  wings  all  glittering  and  gay, 

Their  bright  dominion  kept. 

Leave  me  alone,  these  have  but  feeble  sway, 

They  cannot  fetter  long : 
Let  me  breathe  freely,  let  me  soar  away 

And  find  relief  in  song. 

Leave  me  alone,  then  like  a  bird  set  free, 

Seeking  its  own  blue  sky  ; 
Upon  the  wing  of  thought  afar  I'll  flee, 

Cleaving  immensity. 

Leave  me  alone,  those  tender  beaming  eyes, 

Are  of  bewitching  blue  ; 
But  from  the  depths  of  yonder  starry  skies 

Seraphs  are  gazing  through  ! 

Leave  me  alone,  not  that  this  heart  gr«vvs  c  ^  I, 

To  the  glad  sounds  of  mirth  ; 
But  melodies  of  sweetness  all  untold. 

Woo  me  afar  from  earth. 

Leave  me  alone,  yet  deem  not  doubt  or  care 

Upon  this  bosom  press, 
So  heavily  affection  cannot  share, 

So  deep  it  cannot  bless. 

Leave  me  alone,  though  love  hath  tones  to  lur? 

And  pleasure's  winning  strain 
To  the  fond  circle  of  afifection  pure, 

Is  calling  me  again. 


LEAVE    ME    ALONE.  207 

Leave  me  alone,  I  liear  sweet  voices  far, 

That  will  not  let  me  stay  ; 
Swift  as  tlie  rushing  of  a  felling  star, 

Strange  spirits  throng  my  way. 

Leave  mo  alone,  these  are  the  angels  bright, 

The  guardians  of  my  life, 
That  point  fore'er  toward  the  infinite, 

And  gird  our  souls  for  strife  : 

To  triumph  o'er  this  mockery  and  show, 

The  pageantry  of  time  ; 
That  doth  delude  the  imprisoned  spirit  so, 

Far  from  its  native  clime  : 

To  combat  with  this  cold  and  grovelling:  rmZ 

Which  doth  our  souls  enchain  ; 
So  that  we  cannot  reach  the  bright  ideal, 

For  which  we  pant  in  vain. 

Leave  me  alone,  to  higher,  nobler  dreams. 

Than  ere  have  lit  my  soul ; 
I  fain  would  bathe  where  yon  celestial  gleams, 

A  tide  of  glory  roll. 

Leave  me  alone,  ye  cannot  bind  me  here, 

When  every  ray  divine, 
Beams  with  a  language  beautiful  and  clear, 

Upon  this  soul  of  mine. 

Reveals  not  what  we  are,  but  what  should  be, 

And  bids  us  all  aspire  , 
To  win  a  goal,  which  faith  alone  can  sec, 

Forever  leading  higher. 

Leave  me  alone,  I  will  return  again. 

When  from  communings  bright ; 
My  lips  have  learned  to  breathe  a  holier  strain, 

My  heart  received  now  light. 

Leave  me  alone,  I  will  return  once  more, 

With  music  soft  and  low  ; 
The  music  of  a  soul  that  evermore 

Would  walk  more  pure  below. 

Walk  with  new  aims,  earnest  of  life  divine, 

Beyond  this  narrow  sphere, 
Forever  pressing  towards  that  purest  shrine, 

We  cannot  gaze  on  here. 


THE    PATH    TO    HAPPINESS. 


"  Point  me  to  tbe  path  of  liappiness,"  said  young  Eugenio,  as  ho 
left  the  halls  of  science,  graced  with  literary  laurels. 

Just  then,  he  met  the  serene,  calm  eye  of  Meander.  "  My  son," 
said  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  youth's  high  retreating  brow, 
"  'tis  a  rare  gem  you  seek — my  four-score  years  experience  would 
deem  it  unattainable.  Think  you,  that  so  many  years  of  pleasure 
would  thus  have  blanched  these  silvery  locks  ?  My  history,  Eu- 
genio, would  tell  you  in  what  it  does  not  consist.  I  have  ever  been 
the  dupe  of  air-castles,  and  have  sought  that  bliss  from  the  world, 
which  Heaven  alone  could  proffer.  "With  eager  hand,  I  grasped 
Fame's  airy  phantoms,  and  thought  to  be  deified  by  titles — I  built 
vast  fabrics  of  renown,  and  mounted  to  the  summit  of  my  airy  edi- 
fice— but,  Eugenio,  may  your  mirror  never  reflect  so  delusive  a 
vision  of  life  as  did  mine,  the  moment  I  reached  the  acme  of  my 
fancied  bliss.  When  my  own  ambitious  aspirations,  and  the  most 
vivid  hopes  of  my  proud  relatiTdS  were  more  than  realized — when 
acclamations  responded  to  every  literary  effort,  then  I  envied  the 
humble  reptile  I  crushed  beneath  my  feet.  Blind  mortals  fancied 
my  cup  of  pleasure  filled  to  overflowing.  But,  dear  youth,  I  would 
not  darken  your  glowing  hopes  by  one  shade  of  future  'evil,  or 
blight  the  bud  of  your  ambition  by  one  discouraging  word.  No, 
my  son,  pursue  the  path  that  leads  to  greatness,  to  honor,  and  re- 
nown ;  but,  in  enjoying  the  gifts,  forget  not  to  adore  the  Giver." 

^  *  7p  ^  ^  ^f*  tF 

Well  had  it  been  for  the  young  Eugenio,  if  this  excellent  advice 
had  been  followed.  All  his  bright  dreams  of  futurity  might  have 
been  realized,  could  he  then  but  have  lifted  the  veil  which  obscured 
it,  and  witnessed  the  effects  of  an  unrestrained  intimacy  with  the 

dissipated  L .  But  alas  !  how  soon  was  he  contaminated  by  the 

destroying  vices  of  his  associate — how  soon  were  parents  and  friends 
whose  proudest  hopes  were  founded  upon  his  bright  career,  called 
to  mourn  over  the  lost  and  fallen ; — and  she,  the  fair  maiden,  to 
whom  his  youthful  vows  had  been  plighted — who  loved  him  with  a 
passionate  fervency  which  had  entwined  her  every  thought,  and  hope, 


THE    PATH    TO    HAPPINESS.  209 

and  care,  witli  liIs  destiny — bow  was  her  happy  spirit  bliglited  by 
tbe  cbilling  intelligence  of  bis  utter  degradation  and  ruin. 


*  *  #  * 


A  few  years  passed,  and  an  assembled  multitude  was  seen  in  tbe 

bumble  cburcb-yard  of  tbe  beautiful  village  of  N .   Tbe  stamp 

of  sorrow  on  every  countenance,  plainly  told  tbat  tbe  village 
mourned  tbe  deatb  of  some  loved  member.  Many  and  true  were  tbe 
friends  tbat  wept  for  tbe  broken-bearted  Margaret.  Tbe  parents' 
tears  flowed  fast,  as  tbey  gazed  for  tbe  last  time  upon  tbe  beautiful 
remains  of  tbeir  departed  daughter.  A  sister's  bosom  seemed  burst- 
ing witb  anguish  as  she  kissed  the  clay-cold  lips  of  one  who  since 
life  began  bad  been  dearer  than  self.  And  a  noble  brother  knelt 
almost  insensible  beside  tbe  bier.  Burning  tears  flowed  fast  froiii 
many  eyes  which  bad  long  forgotten  to  weep,  and  nought  but  sobs 
and  sighs  disturbed  the  silence.  My  eyes  for  tbe  first  time  were 
turned  from  the  corse,  and  riveted  upon  a  young  stranger  in  a  riding 
dress,  who  was  fast  approaching  the  bier.  Apparently  unconscious 
of  any  one's  presence,  he  knelt  silently  beside  it,  and  fixed  his  wild 
sunken  eye  upon  the  beautiful  clay,  for  "  all  was  there  of  life  and 
beauty"  save  the  bright  eye ; — the  sweet  smile  bad  not  yet  departed, 
and  the  same  auburn  ringlets  clustered  round  her  pale  brow,  as  in 
very  mockery  of  life. 

Ob  Margaret !  said  Eugenic,  will  you  not  speak  one  forgiving 
word  to  me  ?  Though  a  parent's  or  a  sister's  tears  are  unheeded, 
will  you  not  with  your  sweet  voice  forgive  your  murderer  ?  yes, 
Margaret,  yes, — your  murderer — for  a  consciousness  of  my  ruin 
first  robbed  tbe  rose  from  your  cheek.  Was  it  neglect  or  cold  in- 
diiference  alone,  pride  would  have  surmounted  all.  But  when  tbe 
cursed  demon,  which  was  the  cause  of  all,  bad  changed  my  athletic 
frame  to  a  ghostly  moving  skeleton,  and  my  once  elastic  step  was 
tottering  over  tbe  drunkard's  grave,  heaven,  in  kind  compassion, 
lent  thee  angel's  wings,  to  soar  away  from  this  last  disgrace.  Oh 
bow  does  every  act  now  like  poisoned  arrows  pierce  my  heart !  And 
if  spirits  of  heaven  are  e'er  allowed  to  look  upon  earth,  Margaret, 
with  her  sweet  smile,  will  breathe  forgiveness. 

His  bead  dropped  suddenly,  and  bis  whole  form  seemed  for  a 
moment  convulsed  witb  deep  and  agonizing  sobs.  It  was  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  his  agitated  body  sank  motionless  upon  tbe  earth! — 
Only  the  mortal  part  of  tbe  erring  but  repentant  Eugenio  was  be- 
fore me  ! 


THE   OAK  AND   THE  WILLOW. 
AN    ALLEGORY. 


BY     FANNY     GREEN. 


A  STORM  -was  abroad.  The  liglitping  gleamed  fearfully,  and  the 
cry  of  the  thunder  was  very  loud.  The  clouds  were  gathering  in 
the  east  like  heavy  dark  drapery ;  but  in  the  west  they  were  piled 
together  like  huge  black  mountains ;  and  the  vivid  flashes  went  mo- 
mently searching  through  their  chasms,  revealing  scenes  of  pictu* 
resque  but  awful  grandeur.  The  whirlwind  was  awake.  Earth 
heard  his  wild  clarion,  and  shook  fearfully ;  and  the  waters,  when 
they  knew  his  voice,  were  troubled.  The  birds  were  fleeing  through 
the  air  with  strong  unnatural  cries ;  and  every  animal,  true  to  its 
instinct,  was  seeking  shelter. 

A  majestic  oak,  strong  in  the  maturity  of  years  without  number^ 
stood  upon  the  hill-side,  looking  forth  on  the  storm  with  an  eye  oi 
scorn.  "  Have  I  not,"  said  he,  "  shaken  off  with  my  strong  arm  the 
thunderbolts  of  centuries ;  standing  erect  and  uninjured  amid  the 
shivering  lightnings  of  untold  ages  ?  Have  I  not  battled  with  the 
strong  hail,  and  taken  the  mighty  hurricane  by  the  beard  ?  Behold, 
am  I  not  the  strongest  of  all  things;  and  can  the  power  of  the 
Eternal,  himself,  harm  me  ?  The  storm  is  but  a  recreation — a  scene 
for  my  amusement ;  and  the  thunder,  and  lightning,  and  hail,  what 
are  they,  but  play-things — toys — sent  to  give  me  pastime  ?  What 
are  all  these  to  a  creature  strong  as  the  unconquered  oak  ?  The 
tempest  itself  is  but  a  healthy  exercise ;  and,  even  now,  I  feel  the 
vital  current  rushing  with  unwonted  energy  through  all  my  veins  ! 
The  storm  that  crushes  meaner  things,  is  sent  but  to  give  me  health 
and  strength." 

Then  the  oak  drew  closer  his  thick  mantle  of  leaves,  lifting  up 
his  majestic  head,  and  stretching  forth  his  strong  arms  that  were 
bending  to  the  sway  of  the  tempest  proudly,  as  if  it  were  his  own 
will  tliat  moved  them,  and  not  an  exterior  force.  As  he  looked 
forth  he  beheld  a  willow  shrinking  fearfully  from  the  storm.     Her 


THE    OAK    A^'D    THE    WILLOW.  211 

branches  were  all  prostrate — overj  leii5et  soeiiied  quirering  with 
anguish  ;  and  her  meek  head  was  bent  low,  as  if  to  deprecate  the 
wrath  of  the  elements. 

"Poor  fragile  thing!"'  said  the  oak,  "Alas!  how  I  pity  thee ! 
Thy  tender  heart  will  be  torn  asunder  !  AVliy  didst  thou  not  pre- 
pare foT-  liOe  storm,  and  grow  large,  and  strong  like  me  !" 

Then  a  voice  answered,  whose  sweetness  mingled  strangely  with 
the  shrieking  cry  of  the  whirlwind,  and  all  the  crash  of  the  tempest. 
"  Not  even  in  this  extiemity  does  the  soul  that  ever  trusteth  in  the 
Unseen  entirely  lose  its  strength.  Bitter,  very  bitter  is  our  anguish, 
when  the  heart  is  wrung  to  its  minutest  fibre ;  but  our  Father 
Jiuoweth  what  is  best ;  and  the  bruised  limbs  will  lift  up  and 
strens-then — and  the  wounded  heart  he  will  heal  ao;ain ;  for  he 
•aQicteth  us  in  mercy,  and  chasteneth  in  love ;  so  shall  the  voice  of 
my  bitterest  sorrow  utter  praise." 

There  was  a  sensible  sweetness  in  the  air,  as  the  willow  dropped 
her  head,  and  was  silent ;  and  the  storm  seemed  to  pause  a  moment, 
as  if  in  reverence ;  for  a  gentle  word  will  sometknes  subdue  the 
strongest ;  and  submission  will  disarm  the  most  inveterate  foe. 

But  the  oak  scoffed.  "  Poor  fool !''  said  he,  "  are  not  all  thy 
branches  prostrate?  Is  not  thy  head  bent  low  to  the  ground,  and 
may  not  the  next  moment  cause  thy  death  ?  Then  curse  him  who 
hath  so  cruelly  smitten  thee !  Curse  him  who  breaketh  down  the 
willow — but  who  shall  crush  the  oak  ?"  And  again  he  drew  baek 
his  haughty  head,  and  tossed  abroad  his  strong  arms,  as  if  defying 
the  bolts  of  heaven 

The  liquid  fire  was  concentrating  in  one  fearful  mass ;  and  down 
— down  it  rolled — along  the  sides  of  the  blackest  mountain  cloud, 
and  it  clave  the  oak ,  and  his  stubborn  heart  was  rent  in  twain.  His 
beautiful  garments  were  shivered  to  fragments ;  and  his  pride  v/as 
levelled  with  the  dust. 

The  violence  of  the  storm  went  by.  The  sun  broke  forth,  anc* 
the  rainbow  was  pictured  on  the  retiring  clouds.  The  birds  came 
out  from  their  shelter,  and  flitting  gaily  abroad,  sang  sweet  songs  of 
joy.  Every  creature  was  glad.  A  delicious  perfume  filled  the  air, 
and  the  green  leaves  glistened  through  the  sunny  rain-drops,  liko 
emeralds  set  in  the  purest  pearls  of  the  Orient. 

"Beautiful!"  said  the  angel  of  the  trees,  as  he  went  forth  to 
bless  his  children.  Then  the  willow  heard,  and  knew  his  voice ;  and 
lifting  her  drooping  head,  smiled  througli  her  many  tears.  "  Blesse^d 


•2  1 2  wo  17  AN 


art  tliou,  my  flaiigliter !"  said  the  angel,  as  a  richer  Learn  of  ligtt 
fell  npoii  her  L-ilvery  leaves — "blessed  art  thou  forever  ;  for  in  the 
trying  hour  tlio  unfailing  strength  of  the  Eternal  shall  sustain  thee, 
and  thy  heart,  c\  ^r  trusting  in  the  mercy  of  its  Father,  shall  find 
even  its  afflictions  ministers  of  good.  But  behold  the  end  of  tho 
proud — the  ruin  of  him  that  mocketh." 


-»»>»»  ♦- 


W  OMAN. 

While  we  often  Una'  connected  with  man  mucli  that  constitutes 
loveliness,  yet  it  seems  to  be  enshrined  chiefly  in  woman ;  so  much 
EC  that  it  appears  to  form  part  of  her  very  nature;  and  while  the 
Gymmetry  of  her  form  and  the  beauty  of  her  features  will  always 
fommand  our  admiration,  yet  they  are  far  from  constituting  her 
only  or  even  her  chief  excellence  ;  for  she  is  adorned  by  other  traits, 
which  will  remain  when  her  outward  beauty  shall  have  faded  like  the 
rose  of  summer^  or  passed  away  like  the  dew  of  the  morning. 

She  appears  most  attractive  when  we  consider  the  sweetness  of 
her  disposition,  her  cheerfulness  under  trials,  and  the  strength  and 
durability  of  her  attachment  to  those  she  loves :  for  by  them  man's 
happiness  is  increased,  his  comforts  multiplied,  and  he  encouraged  to 
b^ar  up  amid  the  perplexities  of  business  and  the  trials  of  life. 
Woman's  loveliness  makes  home  a  center  of  peace  and  pleasure,  so- 
ciety a  delight  and  comfort,  and  causes  the  associations  of  life  to  be 
more  endearing,  and  even  amid  pain  and  sickness  how  sweet  and 
comforting  is  her  voice,  how  consoling  her  presence,  and  hovv'  cheer- 
in  or  the  smiles  of  her  countenance. 

The  superior  strength  and  durability  of  her  love  can  never  be 
doubted,  nor  can  it  be  too  highly  appreciated,  for  often  it  remains 
unchanged,  though  the  object  on  which  it  is  placed  becomes  un- 
worthy of  sach  affections,  and  it  may  well  be  asked — 

"  Of  things  beneath,  around,  above, 
To  what  shall  we  Hke  woman's  love '? 
The  depth  of  ocean  none  can  sound, 
But  woman's  love  is  more  profound; 
Pure  lies  the  snow  on  yonder  hill. 
But  woman's  love  is  purer  still; 
'Tis  like  the  rainbow,  brightest  found 
When  darkest  grow  the  clouds  around  ; 
To  smiles  and  tears  both  own  their  birth, 
Aiid  so  they  both  like  heaven  to  earth." 


THIE     ^'DUEIMMo 


'^ 


(Pd-/'^/ 


EYELYK    EICHMOND; 

OR 

THE    DISAPPOINTED    BRIDE. 

"  The  history  of  a  heart  that  suffered  long 
In  patienti sadness  and  in  silence,  yet 
Came  forth  at  last  from  out  the  crucible, 
Refined  and  purified  !" 

The  ancient  apothegm,  "Eesist  the  Devil,  and  he  will 
flee  from  you,"  is  not  the  less  trne  because  often  reiterated, 
and  it  is  no  -less  certain,  that  in  every  species  of  temptation 
a  resolute  determination  to  overcome,  and  a  firm  reliance  on 
Divine  aid,  are  sure  harbingers  of  victory.  It  is  even  so  in 
a  large  portion  of  those  disappointments  and  afflictions  over 
which  a  majority  of  mankind  and  womankind  sigh  and  com- 
plain in  such  pathetic  terms.  When  losses  and  afflictions 
befall  us,  if  we  resolutely  look  the  evil  in  the  face,  calmly 
surveying  its  magnitude  with  a  firm  resolution  to  overcome, 
the  supposed  giant  soon  dwindles  into  an  insignificant  dwarf, 
and  often  he  is  charged  with  some  valuable  gift,  if  we  have 
but  the  courage  to  face  the  pigmy  and  wrest  it  from  him. 

We  recollect  an  early  friend  who  was  a  fine  illustration 
of  this  sentiment.  She  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers,  and  inherited  that  indomitable  spirit  which  has 
ever  characterized  the  sons  and  daughters  of  i^ew  England. 
Ha*d  she  lived  in  the  troublous  days  of  her  ancestors,  she 
would  have  been  the  heroine  of  many  a  tale  of  Indian  foray, 
or,  perhaps,  the  intrepid  leader  in  some  marvelous  escape 
from  savage  captivity ;  and  yet  she  had  all  the  soul  and  ten- 
derness of  a  highly  intellectual  woman. 

1 


10  THE    DISAPPOINTED    B  K  I  D  K. 

Old  Doctor  ElclimonJ  had  but  two  cliildren,  Alonzo  and 
Evelyn,  and  being  well  known  as  a  wealth j  man,  his  chil- 
dren were  naturally  regarded  as  "eligibles''  in  the  match- 
making world,  especially  as  their  worth  consisted  not  half 
60  nnich  in  their  lathers  deeds,  and  bonds,  and  certificates 
of  stock,  as  in  the  nobility  of  mind  and  the  energy  of  char- 
acter they  inherited  from  him.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  Eve- 
lyn was  considered  the  most  accomplished  girl  for  ]uany 
miles  around,  while  nature  had  been  no  nio^o-ard  in  the 
bestowal  of  personal  attractions.  So  that  what  with  her 
education,  her  fine  person,  her  amiaole  manners,  and  her 
prospective  inheritance,  it  is  no  wonder  that  she  had  plenty 
of  wooers,  or  that  she  should  unconsciously  excite  some  jeal- 
ousy in  her  own  sex  and  some  rivalry  in  the  other.  At 
length  it  became  evident  that  James  Maynard  was  the  pecu- 
liar favorite.  It  is  true,  Evelyn's  friends  did  not  quite  ap- 
prove her  choice,  but  since  her  election  w^as  made,  con- 
sent was  obtained,  and  preparations  made  for  the  celebration 
of  the  nuptials  in  true  Yankee  style.  It  could  not  be  denied 
that  James  had  been  considered  a  little  wild,  but  a  change 
for  the  better  seemed  to  have  come  over  him,  antl  much  was 
confidently  hoped  from  the  influence  of  such  an  one  as  Eve- 
Ivn  Richmond. 

One  fine  evening,  late  in  the  autumn,  there  were  signs  of 
unusual  bustle  in  the  doctor's  house.  Every  apartment  was 
lighted  up,  guests  kept  arriving,  and  at  length  good  old  Mr. 
Ewen  alighted  from  the  doctor's  own  carriage,  and  entered 
the  house.  Eor  many  years  he  had  been  the  revered  and 
estimable  pastor  over  the  flock  of  which  the  doctor  and  his 
family  formed  a  part,  and  his  presence  in  any  house  at  this 
particular  period  of  the  day  was  considered  a  sure  token  of 
a  wedding.  Within  were  abundant  signs  of  substantial  hos- 
pitality, and  the  plentiful  cheer  which  befitted  the  wedding 
of  an  only  and  beloved  daughter.  In  the  reception  rooms 
Inhere  was  plenty  of  tittering  and  half-audible  whispers, 
and  stale  jokes,  still  no  appearance  of  bride  or  bridegroom. 
The  moments  stole  tardily  by,  some  of  the  company  grew 
fidgety,  old  Sally  Collins  began  to  wonder  at  the  delay 
quite  audibly,  groups  of  gossips  were  busy  in  private  dis< 


THE    DISAPPOINTED    BRIDE.  H 

cussions,  messengers  were  gliding  about  from  room  to  room, 
the  doctor  himself  looked  flm-ried,  yet  still  in  a  remote 
apartment  sat  Evelyn  and  her  bridemaids,  arrayed  in  a  more 
than  orthodox  quantity  of  laces  and  white  satin,  but  where 
was  the  '^  laggard''  bridegroom  ?  Where  w'as  he  who  before 
this  should  have  claimed  the  fair  hand  which,  enveloped  in 
the  stainless  glove,  lay  listlessly  on  the  table?  At  first  the 
gay  laugh  and  the  witty  rejoinder  went  merrily  round,  but 
as  time  stole  on  and  no  bridegroom  appeared,  an  anxious 
silenc-e  pervaded  the  room,  and  in  spite  of  Evelyn's  efforts 
the  large  drops  welled  over  from  her  eyes  and  followed  each 
other  quickly  over  a  face  lately  so  radiant  with  happiness. 
Just  then  Alonzo  entered  the  room  and  hurriedly  desired  to 
be  left  alone  with  liis  sister.  "Evelvr,"  said  he,  ^'I  know 
you  are  a  true  and  high-souled  woman,  but  if  you  find  you 
have  been  sous^ht  unworthilv  have  vou  courasre  to  be  true 
to  yourself?  Summon  all  your  womanly  dignity  now,  and 
silence  once  and  Ibrever  every  gossip  among  them  all." 

'^'You  speak  in  riddles,"  faltered  Evelyn. 

*'  "Well,  then,  sister  of  mine,  listen  calmly.  I  started  early 
to  accompany  James  Maynard  to  this  house  as  my  brother, 
as  the  husband  elect  of  my  only  sister.  On  passing  a  drink- 
ing saloon  I  was  startled  by  heari'ng  your  name  shouted  in 
a  scene  of  drunken  revelrv.  A  strano^e  feelino;  came  over 
me,  and  I  went  in — there  I  saw  James  in  the  midst  of  an 
uprorious,  half-drunken  group  of  young  men,  boasting  of  his 
approaching  marriage  with  you  with  maudlin  exultation, 
and  bragging  of  his  anticipated  inheritance.  Eveljm,  even 
then  I  pitied  him,  for  I  knew  these  young  men  had  enticed 
him  in,  and  thought  it  a  good  joke  to  send  him  drunk  to  his 
intended  bride  ;  but  I  have  learned  these  things  are  not  quite 
new  to  James,  skillfully  as  he  has  concealed  it  from  us — nay, 
more,  that  he  is  involved  in  debts  which  he  relies  on  vour 
inheritance  to  pay."  Evelyn  sat  like  one  transfixed,  and 
Alonzo  thouglit,  irresolute.  "One  thing  more,  sister ;  when 
James  first  sought  your  hand  he  was  solemnly  plighted 
to  another,  as  young,  as  affectionate,  but  not  so  rich  as 
yourself" 

"Say  no  more,"  said  Evelyn ;  "I  will  do  whatever  yOTr 


12  THE    D  I  S  A  r  P  C  I  N  T  E  D    B  E  I  D  E . 

direct,  only  allow  me  a  few  moments  to  collect  my  tliongiits 
and  regain  composure." 

Hers  was  a  strong  mind,  but  it  was  likewise  full  of  love 
and  tenderness,  and  for  a  moment  her  feelings  were  para- 
lyzed, and  she  well  nigh  sunk  fainting  on  the  floor  ;  but  this 
weakness  lasted  not  long — her  resolution  was  taken.  Soon, 
leaning  on  tlie  arm  of  her  brother,  she  stood  amid  the  crowd 
of  expecting  guests,  and  before  the  holy  man  who  came  to 
pronounce  the  bridal  benediction,  not  as  the  trembling, 
blushing  bride,  but  with  the  erect  bearing,  the  serene  brow, 
and  tlie  flashing  eye  of  the  heroine. 

All  eyes  were  bent  curiously  on  the  group,  and  a  murmur 
of  surprise  ran  round  the  room  ;  when  Alonzo,  making  a 
gesture  for  silence,  thus  addressed  the  company :  "  Friends 
and  neighbors,  you  have  met  to  celebrate  a  wedding ;  but 
instead  of  a  marriage,  let  us  commemorate  an  escape  from  a 
thraldom  worse  than  Egyptian  bondage — the  union  of  a  pure, 
high-minded  woman  with  a  sot  and  a  reprobate.  Circum- 
stances have  this  day  arisen  to  show  that  my  sister  has  been 
near  falling  into  the  power  of  a  worthless  deceiver.  He  has 
abundantly  proved  himself  unworthy  of  the  sacred  name  of 
husband,  which  to-day  should  have  been  his.  Evelyn  stands 
before  you,  heart  whole  as  before.  Under  the  form  of  one 
who  sought  to  win  her  hand,  she  fancied  and  loved  her  own 
beautiful  ideal  of  human  perfection— the  mask  has  fallen  off, 
and  she  beholds  a  less  than  man  where  she  expected  the 
attributes  of  an  immortal.  Our  venerable  friend  here,  can 
not  pronounce  my  sister  a  wife,  but  he  can  offer  our  thanks- 
giving for  a  signal  deliverance— and  you,  my  friends,  will 
bestow  your  hearty  congratulations  on  her  for  her  escape,  and 
join  us,  that  our  household  treasure  yet  remains  to  us." 

Evelyn  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  but  she  bowed  her 
head  in  token  of  acquiescence,  and  the  minister,  seizing  the 
favorable  moment,  made  some  appropriate  and  most  forcible 
remarks  on  the  dangers  which  beset  the  path  of  youth  and 
inexperience— and  then,  lifting  his  voice  in  prayer,  he  so 
feelingly  commended  his  youthful  charge  to  the  keeping  of 
Omnipotent  Wisdom,  he  so  heartily  recommended  the  erring 
and  absent  one  to  the  special  care  of  the  Almighty,  he  so 


THE    DISAPPOINTED    BRIDE.  IS 

eloquently  rendered  the  tribute  of  thanksgiving  that  a  dear 
lamb  of  his  flock  was  spared  that  most  bitter  of  all  sorrows, 
an  unblessed  marriage — that  all  liearts  were  moved,  and 
many  an  eye  unused  to  weep  w^as  suifused  in  tears.  AYhen 
he  concluded,  friends  crowded  around  the  heroine  with  hearty 
congratulations,  for  instead  of  the  weeping,  fainting,  forsaken 
damsel,  there  stood  the  woman  of  high  resolve  and  calm,  un- 
troubled countenance,  that  completely  baffled  the  curiosity 
of  more  than  one  gossip  then  and  there  present. 

Supper  w^as  announced,  and  mirth  and  good-humor  pro- 
vailed  throughout.  While  the  hospitalities  of  the  doctor's 
mansion  were  being  discussed,  a  noise  of  drunken  uproar 
was  heard  in  the  street,  and  soon  after  a  noisy  parley  at  the 
door,  for  Alonzo,  anticipating  something  of  the  sort,  and 
anxious  to  spare  his  sister's  feelings,  had  placed  servants  at 
the  door  to  prevent  any  unwelcome  intrusion  ;  but  before  any 
were  aware,  in  staggered  the  recreant  bridegroom,  supported 
between  two  tipsy  companions.  He  loudly  demanded  to  be 
admitted  to  see  his  intended,  who,  according  to  all  usage,  was 
now  fairly  entitled  to  scream,  faint,  or  indulge  in  hysterics. 
She  cast  one  look  on  his  silly,  unmeaning  face,  and  it  wanted 
but  this  to  cure  any  lingering  admiration  of  her  former  lover. 
She  quietly  glided  to  her  own  room  and  bolted  the  door, 
while  the  besotted  revelers  were  sent  to  their  homes.  All 
present  wanted  but  this  scene  to  convince  them  she  had  acted 
wisely,  and  to  acquit  her  of  all  capriciousness.  But,  alone 
in  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber  the  tension  of  her  nerves 
was  loosened,  and  she  indulged  in  a  long  and  passionate  fit 
of  weeping — bitterly  she  wept,  not  over  the  wreck  of  her 
own  happiness  alone,  but  the  unworthiness  of  one  she  had 
lately  so  esteemed.  Yet  there  was  mingled  in  this,  her  great 
Borrow,  no  pang  of  self-reproach,  no  weak  misgivings,  for 
between  her  and  James  Maynard  a  great  gulf  w^as  placed 
now  and  forever.  But,  as  the  fiercest  storm  soonest  subsides, 
BO  tranquillity  gradually  took  possession  of  her  mind,  and 
her  usual  self-possession  returned. 

Next  day  a  traveling  party  started  from  the  doctor's,  not, 
indeed,  with  the  '•  pomp  and  circumstance"  of  a  wedding 
tour,  but  with  preparations  for  a  long  absence.     When  Eve- 


14  THE    DISArPOINTED    BRIDE. 

lyn  returned  to  her  father's  house,  many  months  after,  she 
came  as  the  wife  of  a  high-minded  and  honorable  man,  who 
was  above  disguise,  and  who  was  capable  of  appreciating  the 
true  excellence  of  his  Avife.  She  had  no  trepidations  h^st 
some  disclosures  should  reach  her  husband's  ear,  for  she  had 
frankly  tokl  him  the  whole  truth,  and  he  honored  her  deci- 
sion and  firmness  of  character,  which  could  free  her  at  onco 
and  forever  from  an  unworthy  attachment. 

As  to  James  Maynard,  his  mortification  may  more  easily 
be  imagined  than  expressed,  when  waking  from  the  heavy 
stupor  into  which  he  had  sunk,  the  events  of  the  day  before 
gradually  came  back  to  his  confused  mind.  He  found 
enough  to  inform  him,  even  to  the  minutest  detail,  of  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening.  He  had  been  led  on  and 
betrayed,  it  is  true,  but  through  his  own  weakness  ;  he  knew 
he  had  no  previous  character  to  fall  back  upon,  for  there 
was  only  too  much  he  wished  to  conceal.  It  had  been 
happy  for  James  if  this  terrible  lesson  had  taught  him  wis- 
dom, and  led  him  to  forsake  his  dangerous  companions. 
But  with  a  strange  infatuation,  he  plunged  deeper  and  deeper 
into  excesses,  and  his  downward  course  was  direct  and 
speedy.  We  last  heard  of  him  as  a  common  sailor  on  board 
a  ship  bound  for  a  distant  port,  but  whether  absence  and 
salt  water  has  produced  any  reform  is  yet  uncertain. 

The  incidents  here  related  are  not  without  a  wholesome 
moral  lesson.  Had  Evelyn  possessed  less  decision,  she 
might  have  spent  her  youthful  years  in  vain  regrets  and  un- 
certain hopes  of  her  lover's  reformation,  until,  worn  out  with 
that  sickness  of  the  heart  which  arises  from  "  hope  deferred," 
she  had  sunk  into  an  early  grave.  And  had  James  taken 
half  the  trouble  to  be  what  he  wished  to  appear  that  he  did 
to  deceive,  had  he  avoided  entirely  the  false  friends  who 
lured  him  to  ruin,  a  long  career  of  happiness  and  prosperity 
was  open  before  him.  Instead  of  which,  he  felt  the  bitter 
truth,  that  hard,  indeed,  is  "  the  way  of  the  transgressor." 


In  aftairs  of  importance,  we  ought  less  to  contrive  oppor- 
tunities,  than  to  use  them  when  they  offer. ' 


WxVSHIiJGTON    AND    N'APOLEON. 


WASHINGTON    AND   NAPOLEON. 
A  COMPARISON. 

3  Y     G  .     L  .     C  R  A  >'  :M  E  R  . 

It  is  proper  and  expedient  that  we  Blionld  often  recur  to 
the  conduct  and  characters  of  great  and  ilhistrious  men,  so 
that  we  may  form  a  just  appreciation  of  tliem  and  their  deeds. 

But  our  purpose  now,  is  not  so  much  to  discuss  the  char- 
acters of  "Washington  and  Xapoleon,  as  to  institute  a  com- 
parison between  them.  As  compared  with  Xapoleon — a  man 
with  whose  name  the  world  still  rings,  and  whose  actions  are 
still  fresh  in  the  memories  of  some  who  waded  with  him 
through  seas  of  blood  and  plains  of  carnage — the  glory  of 
"Washington  is  to  that  of  the  other  as  is  the  light  of  the  sun 
to  that  of  the  glow-worm. 

Xapoleon  exercised  all  his  powers  in  the  attainment  of  an 
object  which  was  as  fleeting  as  the  breath  of  the  winds — 
the  other  bent  all  his  energies  to  the  attainment  of  the  great- 
ness and  happiness  of  a  future  generation.  IVapoleon,  like 
the  falcon,  made  one  soaring  sweep,  and  returned  to  earth 
exhausted.  "Washington,  like  the  eagle,  soared  slowly  but 
steadily,  on  an  untiring  wing,  and  rested  in  his  eyrie  on  the 
very  highest  pinnacle  of  the  Alpine  mount  of  fame.  The 
one  captivated  the  multitude  by  his  brilliant  and  flashing, 
but  unsubstantial  feats.  The  actions  of  the  other  were  unorna- 
mented  and  unadorned,  but  substantial  and  permanent.  The 
one  siglied  for  an  ideal  world,  and  endeavored  to  mold  one 
according  to  his  wishes — the  other  was  content  with  the  one 
already  in  being,  and  strove  to  develop  its  good.  Xapoleon 
was  ever  chasing  a  phantom,  which,  like  an  ignis  fatuus^ 
held  out  to  him  tempting  flatteries  and  allurements  he  could 
never  grasp.  Washington  directed  his  ends  to  the  attain- 
ment of  an  object  which  was  real  and  could  be  gained.  The 
one  was  ambition  personified — the  other,  a  combination  of 
meekness,  humility,  and  contentment. 

The  battle  at  the  Bridge  of  Lodi  was  far  more  brilliant 
and  grand  than  any  which  took  place  in  the  days  of  the  Hevo- 


IG  WASHINGTON  AND  NAPOLEON. 

lution.  But  tlie  surrender  at  Yorktown  gave  libert)^  to  a  peo- 
ple, and  luippiness  to  a  nation.  The  one  was  the  result  of 
skill,  discipline,  and  power — the  other,  of  patience,  perse- 
verance, and  assiduity.  The  one  will  shine  upon  the  page 
of  history  as  a  glowing  achievement  of  no  great  end — the 
other  will  appear  as  the  interposition  of  Divine  Providence, 
in  the  bringing  about  of  mighty  events.  Washington  has 
departed,  but  he  has  left  behind  him  a  goodly  heritage  of 
liberty  and  happiness.  Napoleon  is  no  more,  and  his  name 
is  linked  only  with  the  things  of  yesterday,  which,  like  his 
greatness  and  glory,  are  fast  departing.  The  memory  of  the 
one  is  dear  to  all  mankind — that  of  the  other,  commands 
astonishment  rather  than  respect.  In  hfe,  one  reposed  his 
confidence  and  trust  in  Heaven — the  other,  upon  the  power 
of  his  own  arm,  and  the  might  of  his  own  strength.  The  one 
died  an  exile  on  a  sea-girt  rock,  for  from  his  friends  and 
companions — the  other  sunk  sweetly  to  rest  in  the  arms  of 
his  country,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  fruits  of  his  victories. 

Such  are  some  of  the  characteristics  which  distinguished 
these  two  great  cotemporaries  of  modern  times ;  the  one 
in  the  New  "World — the  other  in  the  Old.  Washington's 
character,  like  a  bright  mirror,  will  ever  reflect  its  virtues, 
for  time  can  not  dim  its  brightness,  nor  can  the  mold  and 
dust  of  centuries  mar  its  polish.  As  he  aspired  to  nothing 
Avhich  he  did  not  gain,  nor  pretended  to  that  which  he  did 
not  possess,  he  excited  no  hopes  which  were  not  fulfilled, 
nor  raised  any  expectations  beyond  consummation.  There- 
fore, the  past  will  ever  illustrate  his  judgment  and  ability, 
and  the  future,  his  greatness  and  renown. 

As  his  deeds  and  his  actions  were  the  offspring  of  disin- 
terested motives,  his  fimie  is  pure  and  unalloyed.  Time 
will  wTite  the  epitaphs  of  both  Washington  and  Naj)oleon. 


An  able  man  will  arrange  his  interests,  and  conduct  each 
in  its  proper  order.  Our  greediness  often  hurts  us,  in 
making  us  prosecute  too  many  things  at  once  ;  by  earnestly 
desiring  the  less  considerable,  we  lose  the  more  important. 


!    LIVE    TO    DIE — I    DIE    TO    LIVE.  17 


I    LIVE    TO    DIE. 

BY       L,  I  L,  L  A       X.  I  r<^  W  0  O  D  . 

-^♦I  LIVE  to  die,"  said  a  thoughtful  boy, 
As  he  lightly  spurned  each  trifling  toy  ; 
And  his  fervent  prayer  went  echoing  forth 
For  a  holy  life,  while  he  lived  on  earth. 

'•  I  live  to  die,"  said  a  pious  youth  ; 
"I  will  seek  for  peace  in  the  way  of  truth;'' 
And  he  formed,  in  his  leisure,  many  a  plan. 
To  be  carried  out  when  he  grew  a  man. 

"  I  live  to  die,"  said  a  lover  true  ; 
"  Oh,  gentle  maid,  be  it  thus  with  you  ; 
We  shall  find,  if  we  leave  all  earthly  fume, 
That  '  to  live  is  Christ,  and  to  die  is  gain.' " 

"  I  live  to  die,"  said  a  happy  sire. 
As  his  children  neured  the  wintry  fire  ; 
And  his  heart  was  warmed  with  holy  joy, 
As  he  gave  to  God  each  darling  boy. 

*'l  live  to  die,"  said  an  aged  man. 
Whose  hour  of  life  was  well-nigh  ran ; 
His  mind  well  stored  with  precepts  mild, 
With  happy  thoughts  }iis  houi-s  beguiled. 

And  ever  thus,  in  this  fallen  world, 
Where  the  gospel  banner  is  wide  unfurled^ 
Inspired  with  the  hope  of  life  on  high, 
Are  mortals  found,  who  live  to  die. 


I   DIE   TO   LIVE. 

BY       LILLA       LINWOOD. 

"I  DIE  to  live,"  said  a  dying  girl, 
For  faith  did  a  glorious  life  unfurl; 
And  she  gave  her  parents  a  parting  kiag. 
As  she  left  this  life  for  a  life  of  bliss. 


18  I     DIE     TO     LIVE. 

*'I  die  lo  jivo,"  said  a  maiden  fair, 
As  she  caught  the  words  of  her  sister's  prayer; 
"Thoiivrli  now  we  part,  we  shall  hve  together, 
Where  death  can  no  more  our  union  sever." 

**I  die  to  live.''  said  a  pale  young  bride 

To  the  loved  one,  weeping  by  her  side  ; 

And  lier  happy  dealli  was  a  precious  token 

Tliat  the  words  were  true  which  her  lips  had  spoken. 

"  I  die  to  live,"  said  a  mother  kind  ; 
Death  called  her  while  training  the  youthful  mind; 
But  the  blest  example  her  life  had  given, 
Guided  her  children  home  to  heaven. 

"I  die  to  live,"  said  a  fading  form. 

And  her  eye  was  bright,  and  her  cheek  grew  warm, 

As  she  thought,  in  the  blissful  woi'ld  on  high 

She  would  live  for  aye,  and  never  die. 

May  we  ever  thus,  in  this  lower  world, 
Where  the  banner  of  Death  is  wide  unfurled, 
To  our  God  each  passing  moment  give, 
And  live  to  die,  that  we  may  die  to  live. 


Worth  Heeding. — If  men  gave  three  times  as  miicli  atten 
tion  as  tliey  now  do  to  ventilation,  ablution,  and  exercise  in 
tlie  open  air,  and  only  one  tliird  as  mucli  to  eating,  furnish 
ing,  and  late  hours,  the  number  of  doctors,  dentists,  and 
apothecaries,  and  the  amount  of  neuralgia,  dyspepsy,  gout, 
fever,  and  consumption  would  be  changed  in  a  correspond- 
ing ratio.  Mankind  would  rapidly  present  the  aspect,  not 
only  of  a  far  healthier  and  thriftier,  but  a  far  more  beauti- 
ful and  more  virtuous  race. 

A  Lawyer's  Opinion  of  Law. — A  learned  judge  being 
once  asked  how  he  would  act  if  a  man  owed  him  ten  pounds 
and  refused  to  pay  him,  replied,  ''  Kather  than  bring  an 
action,  with  its  costs  and  uncertainty,  I  would  give  him  a 
receipt  in  full  of  all  demands — ^yea,  and  I  would  send  him, 
moreover,  five  pounds  to  cover  all  possible  costs." 


THE  COUSINS; 

OR  TRUE  AND  FALSE  BEAUT* 

BY    MRS.    P.    W.    LATHAM. 

"Worse  than  idle  is  compassion, 

If  it  end  in  tears  and  sighs ; 
Thee  from  bondage  would  I  rescue 

And  from  vile  indignities. 
Nurtured,  as  thy  mien  bespeak,  in  high  degree, 
Look  up,  and  help  a  hand  that  longs  to  set  thee  itne.—V  jrjjswoais  . 

Have  you  looked  upon  a  bright,  young  creatuie,  peculiar jy 
tlie  child  of  joy  and  sunshine,  and  whose  every  movement 
reminded  you  of  ''the  poetry  of  motion?"  Snch  was  Ida 
Irving,  or,  as  we  always  called  her,  the  Tulip,  for  that  was 
her  favorite  flower.  Of  her  manners  or  her  carriage,  or 
whatever  you  please  call  it,  to  say  she  was  graceful  would 
convey  not  just  the  right  idea ;  for  you  would  rather  say 
she  was  one  of  the  Graces.  And  she  had  such  a  fond- 
ness for  gorgeous  colors,  such  an  admiration  for  that  Ori- 
ental magnificence  of  which  she  had  read  and  dreamed  so 
much  ;  and  they  became  her  so  well,  admirably  harmonizing 
with  her  peculiar  style  of  beauty,  for  there  was  something 
almost  regal  in  her  tall  form,  her  flashing  dark  eye,  and  the 
heavy,  shining  braids  of  silky  hair  that  wreathed  her  finely 
formed  head  like  a  diadem.  She  knew  what  style  of  dress 
became  her ;  she  had  been  educated  to  it,  and  if  she  took 
pleasure  in  exhibiting  her  beauty,  whose  fault  was  it !  Her 
whole  teaching  from  the  cradle  might  be  summed  up  in  one 
little  word — Display.  That  was  the  goal  of  her  mother's 
aspirations,  the  object  for  which  she  toiled,  and  lived,  and 
contrived,  as  only  such  ladies  can  plan  and  toil,  day  and 
night.  The  spirit  they  worship  is  Display.  From  Ida's 
earliest  recollections,  all  her  teaching,  all  her  aims  and  par- 
poses  were  to  "appear  well."  She  sung,  played,  danced, 
because  she  was  admired.  She  was  sent  to  a  celebrated 
school,  because  it  was  the  "fashion."  She  was  taught  to 
avoid  the  sunshine  and  the  free  breath  of  heaven  as  if  they 


20  ■  THECOUSINS. 

were  contagion,  for  fear  her  pure  complexion  should  be  tar- 
nished. She  must  not  run,  or  walk,  or  sit  as  comfort  dic- 
tated, for  the  sake  of  appearance ;  and  she  dreaded  a  torn 
or  soiled  garment  as  the  ultimatum  of  human  transgression. 
It  was  no  wonder,  then,  if  after  all  tliis  toil  for  display,  the 
better  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  were  neglected ;  or  if  in 
all  tlie  pains  to  attract  admiration,  she  was  gracefid  as  the 
flower  wliich  was  her  favorite  symbol.  Not  that  her  heart 
was  bad,  or  her  mind  disqualified  by  nature  for  the  holiest, 
loftiest  purposes ;  it  was  only  like  the  leaves  of  her  costly 
album,  filled  with  shov/y  and  highly-colored  i3ictures ;  but 
the  fine  sentiment,  the  bright  scintillations  of  genius,  the 
exellent  maxims,  the  outpouring  of  generous  afiection,  the 
glittering  gems  of  thought,  were  all  left  out. 

It  has  very  often  been  remarked,  that  beautiful  women 
are  rarely  intellectual ;  and  this  to  some  extent  may  be  true, 
for  how  can  she  who  from  the  cradle  has  been  petted  and 
flattered,  whose  wants  are  anticipated  before  they  are  felt; 
who  sees  herself,  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  the  object 
of  unwearied  solicitude  and  care;  who  finds  every  silly 
observation  listened  to  and  admired — how  can  she  escape 
from  the  enchanted  ground,  or  find  out  before  her  beauty 
wanes,  and  she  is  surrounded  with  cares  for  which  she  is 
wholly  unfitted,  that  the  only  lasting  attraction,  a  cultivated 
understanding,  has  never  been  hers?  And  husbands  who 
liave  been  blinded  by  mere  external  grace,  who  have  wor- 
shiped the  shadow  regardless  of  the  substance,  are  not 
slow  to  perceive  that,  when  the  smooth  skin  becomes  fur- 
rowed and  the  rounded  form  begins  to  lose  its  symmetry, 
that  the  beauty  they  adored  has  departed,  leaving  nothing 
but  deformity. 

Happy  is  that  wife  or  maiden  who  is  arrested  before  it  be 
too  late,  and  made  to  commune  with  her  inner  self,  to  store 
her  mind  with  wholesome  aliment,  and  to  cultivate  those 
graces  of  character  which  are  her  only  passport  to  lasting 
favor.  Such  were  the  unheeded  teachings  of  cousin  Har- 
riet Hartley —  dear,  good,  loving  Cousin  Harriet!  and  yet 
she  was  neither  very  old  nor  very  plain.  She  was  always  a 
riddle  to  the  Tulip ;  so  wise,  so  amiable,  so  unselfish,  so 


THECOUSINS.  21 


/ 


capable  of  pleasing,  and  yet  caring  so  little  for  admiration, 
60  fond  of  domestic  enjoyment,  and  yet  avoiding  wedlock. 
Ah,  Miss  Tulip !  liad  Cousin  Harriet  talked  lialf  so  much  of 
herself  or  of  her  own  affairs  as  some  you  know  of,  you 
would  have  knovsm  ere  this  she  had  learned  wisdom  of  a 
stern  bnt  truthful  teacher — affliction;  tliat  she  had  sacred 
and  treasured  memories ;  that  she  had  her  hopes  and  antici- 
pations of  a  reunion  with  the  loved  and  lost  which  were  not 
of  this  world. 

But  to  return  to  Ida.  Her  mother  determined  that  none 
should  outshine  her  idol  at  the  approaching  festival;  and 
the  decorations  prepared  for  the  occasion  were  of  the  most 
elaborate  and  costly  description.  She  was  attired  as  a  sul- 
tana, in  a  most  superb  manner ;  while  a  troop  of  attendants, 
dressed  in  character,  completed  the  illusion.  A  general 
hum  of  admiring  voices  at  their  entrance  gratified  both 
mother  and  daughter.  "Who  could  look  upon  that  bloom 
ine:,  o'litterino;,  graceful  creature,  and  not  exclaim — beauti- 
ful !  Did  any  of  that  gay  company  remember  and  lay  to 
heart  how  transient  is  the  tulip's  glory— how  perfumeless 
and  profitless  is  all  that  display  of  rainbow  colors  ?  We  are 
sure  one  gay  cavalier  did  not,  who,  as  sultan  of  all  Tulip- 
dom,  continually  followed  Ida's  footsteps,  his  eye  ever  ex- 
pressing the  most  profound  admiration,  as  if  he  believed, 
unlike  earth's  fair  blossom,  she  would  retain  her  freshness 
and  bloom  forever  1 

*•  ^SiG  tTmxsit^ "  whispered  Cousin  Harriet,  as  she  sur- 
veyed the  Tulip,  all  '"'  arrayed  for  conquest."  "  Xo,  not  '  sic 
transit^^ ^'^  laughingly  replied  the  happy  girl;  ^''-gloria 
mundV  write  for  me." 

A  few  days  after,  Ida  was  seized  with  a  sudden  faintness, 
Dot  peculiarly  alarming  at  first,  but  followed  by  violent 
fever.  A  j^hysician  was  sent  for,  who  shook  his  head  mys- 
teriously ;  and  after  recommending  seclusion  and  quiet,  in- 
timated that  a  few  hours  would  probably  develop  more 
clearlv  the  nature  of  the  disease.  Alas  for  short-lived 
beautv !  The  next  dav  the  nature  of  the  disease  w\as  too 
plainly  apparent :  Ida  Avas  suffering  under  tlie  acutest  iorm 
of  a  loathsome  and  pestilent  disorder.     She  was  too  full  of 


22  THECOUSINS. 


\ 


pain,  too  ill,  to  be  aware  of  her  own  danger ;  but  her  mother 
realized  the  full  extent  of  tlie  calamity,  and  knew  that  even 
if  life  were  spared,  the  glory  of  her  beauty  was  gone  forever. 

For  many  an  anxious  day  the  disease  raged,  and  Ida  lay 
moaning  in  her  helplessness,  until  at  length  she  was  pro- 
nounced out  of  danger ;  but,  oh,  what  a  wreck  of  loveliness 
lay  in  that  darkened  chamber  !  The  delicate  skin,  seamed  and 
spotted  even  to  exceeding  repulsiveness  ;  the  bright  eyo 
dimmed  and  nearly  sightless ;  and  that  wealth  of  bright, 
silky,  wavy  hair,  had  all  disappeared,  giving  place  to  un- 
seemly and  entire  baldness.  It  w^as  well  for  Ida  that  she 
could  not  as  yet  see  the  ruin  that  disease  had  wrought.  ]S"ot 
so  with  her  weak  and  vain  mother.  The  daughter's  beauty 
had  been  a  source  of  inordinate  pride,  the  one  object  of  su- 
preme worship  ;  and  now  her  idol  was  stripped  of  its  orna- 
ments, and  lay  before  her  a  helpless  mass  of  clay.  By  turns 
she  raved  and  wept,  lamenting  the  sore  bereavement,  as  if 
the  jewel  was  of  no  value  now  the  casket  was  marred.  It 
was  happy  for  Ida  that  Cousin  Harriet,  with  her  gentle  min- 
istrations, was  ever  at  hand,  to  prevent  her  witnessing  these 
childish  outbreaks  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  her  mother. 
She  soothed  and  amused  the  sufferer,  and  spoke  words  of 
consolation  to  the  frantic  mother.  Above  all,  she  impressed 
on  her  mind  the  necessity  of  cheerfulness  in  Ida's  presence. 

Ida's  father  was  a  man  much  absorbed  in  business,  never 
troubling  himself  about  domestic  matters,  yielding  in  all 
things  of  that  sort  to  the  direction  of  his  weak  and  proud 
wife,  fully  satisfied  that  in  supplying  all  demands  for  money 
lie  was  a  good  husband  and  father.  He  loved  his  children ; 
that  is,  when  he  had  time  to  remember  he  had  any.  He 
was  sorry  to  find  that  Ida  w^as  sick ;  bade  his  wife  let  her 
have  whatever  she  wished ;  went  to  his  warehouse,  and  for- 
got every  thing  but  ships  and  merchandise. 

But  Cousin  Harriet  thought  of  every  thing,  and  what  she 
did  was  always  done  judiciously.  As  Ida  grew  stronger, 
the  weak  and  inflamed  state  of  her  eyes  made  it  still  needful 
to  remain  in  her  darkened  room,  where  few  but  the  mem- 
bers of  the  household  were  permitted  to  enter.  Of  Ida's 
young  friends,  some  were  deterred  from  visiting  her  from 


T  H  E     C  0  U  S  I  N  JK  23 

fear  of  contagion ;  others  were  denied  admittance  on  one 
pretext  or  another.  Her  mother  dreaded  to  exhibit  her 
char-ged  appearance.  Cousin  Harriet  feared  some  sudden 
exchamation  or  look  of  surprise  should  reveal  to  her  yet 
feeble  patient  the  extent  of  her  misfortune. 

During  these  long  and  lonelv  days,  Ocnisin  Harriet  never 
remitted  her  kindness.  She  staid  bv  hr.v,  conversed  with 
her,  read  to  hei*,  and  amused  her  solitary  hours,  nntil  Ida 
began  to  wonder  how  it  was  tliat  in  her  darkened  chamber, 
sliut  out  from  all  that  used  to  interest  her,  she  was  so  happy. 
The  truth  was,  she  had  just  begun  to  realize  the  pleasure  of 
thouglit  and  reflection,  apart  from  that  whirl  of  gayety  in 
which  she  had  lived.  No  one  was  better  qualified  to  lecon- 
cile  her  to  herself,  and  to  commune  with  her  own  heart, 
than  Cousin  Harriet.  She  drew  from  lier  own  rich  store- 
house treasures  of  mind  and  memory,  and  she  taught  the 
newly-awakened  mind  to  unfold  its  soaring  pinions.  But 
there  was  one  source  of  anxiety  to  all  her  friends:  Ida  had 
once  an  accepted  lover — she  fancied  she  had  still — if  one 
could  be  called  a  lover  who  had  been  dazzled  by  mere  ex- 
ternal glitter,  who  was  as  gay  and  inconsiderate  as  the  toy 
he  had  hoped  to  make  his  own.  Ida  had  been  flattered  and 
her  vanity  gratified  by  the  preference  of  one  who  was  the 
heir  of  considerable  wealth,  polished  in  his  manners,  hand- 
some in  his  person,  and,  in  her  o])inion,  "  every  inch  a  gentle- 
man." He  was  the  idol  of  that  circle  sometimes  known  as 
Japonicadom  ;  and  so  far  as  her  unfuriiislied  soul  could  love, 
Ida  loved  him.  During  her  long  illness  and  convalescence, 
he  had  often  solicited  permission  to  see  her,  and  was  as  often, 
on  various  pretexts,  denied.  At  length,  however,  he  grew 
importunate,  and  insisted  on  seeing  his  future  bride.  As  he 
must  sooner  or  later  know  the  truth.  Cousin  Harriet  deemed 
it  best  to  admit  him.  She  had  prepared  his  mind  to  see  a 
great  alteration  in  Ida's  looks;  and  tliough  she  had  never 
beheld  her  own  features  since  lier  severe  illness.  Cousin 
Harriet  anxiouslv  strove  to  fortifv  her  mind  for  the  shock 
she  felt  sure  awaited  her. 

The  impatient  lover  was  admitted  ;  but  it  was  evident  his 
mind  was  unprepared  for  the  sighc  that  awaited  him,  from 


24  THECOUSINS. 

the  involiintaiy  excamation  of  surprise  and  disappoiiitsdient 
that  escaped  him.  Then  Ida  realised  for  the  first  time  tlie 
full  extent  of  her  deformit3^  Her  lover  made  but  a  brief 
visit :  his  conduct  was  constrained  and  unnatural ;  and  when 
he  rose  to  go,  he  did  not  speak  of  coming  again.  Ida  sum- 
moned all  her  womanly  pride,  and  preserved  a  show  of 
composure  until  he  left  her,  when,  in  the  depth  of  her  mortifi- 
cation, she  determined  to  see  and  know  for  herself  what 
havoc  disease  had  made ;  and  seizing  the  momentary  absence 
of  her  attendant,  she  tottered  into  another  room,  for  thought- 
ful Cousin  Harriet  had  removed  all  means  of  seeing  herself; 
and  now,  for  the  first  time,  the  whole  truth  was  revealed  to 
her.  When  her  careful  nurse  returned,  alarmed  at  her  ab- 
sence, she  sought  her  in  an  adjoining  apartment,  and  there 
she  found  her,  cold  and  senseless,  lying  on  the  floor. 

The  shock  had  been  too  great  for  her  enfeebled  frame,  and 
a  severe  relapse  of  fever  was  the  consequence.  Perhaps  it 
was  well  for  Ida  that  debility  and  delirium  for  a  long  time 
swept  from  her  memory  all  recollection  of  that  day.  When 
her  mind  was  again  clear,  her  former  admirer  was  in  another 
hemisphere.  But  health  came  slowly,  and  with  it  some  re- 
mains of  her  former  beauty.  Slowly  the  hair,  and  eyes,  and 
skin,  if  less  brilliant,  yet  became  agreeable  to  the  sight. 
She  would  never  again  be  a  belle,  but  she  was  not  repulsive. 

And  now  Cousin  Harriet  had  the  most  difiicult  part  of 
her  mission  to  fulfill.  Pity  had  so  long  held  her  by  the  side 
of  the  invalid,  that  love,  such  as  we  may  suppose  angels 
can  feel  for  erring  and  feeble  mortals,  now  filled  her  heart ; 
and  she  determined,  as  far  as  lay  in  her  power,  to  fill  up  the 
unwritten  pages  in  the  heart's  tablet ;  to  store  the  mind  with 
treasures  which  accident  should  not  rob  her  of  or  efl:ace.  It 
was  no  light  task,  however,  to  redeem  the  waste  of  years, 
and  to  overcome  the  indolence  and  petulance  of  a  neglected 
temper.  But  what  will  not  patient  and  assiduous  love  fulfill  ? 
By  degrees  the  mind,  suddenly  withdrawn  from  all  its  for- 
mer pursuits,  began  to  unfold  its  nobler  powers,  and  to  slake 
its  thirst  at  the  fountain  of  wisdom ;  at  the  same  time  its 
former  susceptibilities  were  drawn  out  and  cultivated.  Ida 
began  to  look  away  from  the  narrow  circle  of  selfish  gratifi- 


THECOUSINS.  25 

cation,  and  to  sympatliize  with  the  more  ennobling  pursuits 
of  others.  To  pursue  the  symbol  of  the  casket,  it  was  less 
brilliant,  but  the  jewel  it  contained  was  receiving  so  beauti- 
ful a  polish,  that  its  surroundings  were  little  heeded.  With 
steady  perseverance,  Cousin  Harriet  taught  her  to  find  pleas- 
ure in  rational  pursuits ;  and  at  length  she  saw,  with  emo- 
tions of  thankfulness,  that  her  labors  were  crowned  with 
abundant  success. 

Ida  could  now  look  back  with  rejoicing  on  her  escape 
from  a  premature  and  ill-starred  marriage  ;  for  it  could  not 
escape  her,  that  a  love  which  grew  cold  at  her  first  misfor- 
tune, must  at  best  have  soon  merged  into  indifiJ'erence  and 
neglect.  How  she  loved  dear  Cousin  Harriet,  that  more 
than  mother,  who  first  taught  her  the  real  value  of  life ! 
Her  friend's  character  was  no  longer  an  unsolved  enigma, 
for  she  could  fully  enter  into  her  purposes.  She  was  begin- 
nino:  to  live  in  a  new  world,  and  looked  back  with  wonder 
on  the  butterfly  existence  which  had  so  engrossed  her  time. 

Her  mother  never  fully  comprehended  the  nature  of  her 
daughter's  contentment ;  but  she  saw  she  was  happy,  and 
she  grew  reconciled  to  what  she  still  considered  an  irretriev- 
able misfortune.  Ida's  father  took  a  more  comfortable  view 
of  the  case ;  and  remarked,  that  '*  what  the  girl  lacked  in 
looks,  she  would  make  up  in  money !" 

When  she  again  emerged  from  her  seclusion,  she  was  no 
longer  the  gaudy,  but  perfumeless  tulip,  but  rather  a  fruit- 
ful vine,  dispensing  her  bounty  and  fragrance,  and  blessed 
of  the  many  who  shared  of  her  munificence.  She  cared  not 
for  the  hollow  compliments  of  coxcombs,  while  the  gifted 
and  the  good  sought  her  friendship,  and  listened  with  re- 
spect and  admiration  to  her  words  of  wisdom. 

"  But  did  Ida  live  and  die  an  old  maid  ?" 

Perhaps  not ;  but  we  will  venture  to  assert,  that  a  mind 
80  well  balanced  as  hers  need  depend  on  no  external 
circumstances  for  enjoyment.  A  heart  overflowing  with 
love  to  every  human  creature,  has  a  "well-spring"  of  joy 
within  itself;  and  even  features  much  homelier  tlian  Ida's 
continued  to  be,  when  lit  up  with  kindness  and  intelligence, 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  beautiful.     And  we  know  a 

2 


26  THE     MIDNIGHT    HOUK. 

happy  and  most  affectionate  family  wliose  mother  is  very 
much  like  Ida ;  and  we  have  seen  her  lean  on  the  arm  of  a 
distimruished  statesman  with  an  affectionate  freedom  which 
betokened  a  happy  wife.    But  the  moral  of  our  story  is  soon 

told: 

That  exceeding  beauty  is  often  a  dangerous  gift ;  and  that 
permanent  happiness  must  be  based  on  the  qualities  of  the 
heart. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   HOUR. 

BY    MRS.  L.  G.   ABELL. 

This  lone  night-hour,  Father  Supreme, 
Is  fitting  time  to  think  of  Thee ; 

This  calm  and  silent  moon-lit  hour 
Brings  thy  rich  attributes  to  me. 

The  world  asleep!  and  thy  kind  care 
Is  watching  o'er  each  slumbering  one  ; 

Even  the  guilty  in  his  cell, 

Can  not  thy  love  and  presence  shun. 

Were  man  as  free  from  vn-ong  as  now, 
When  sleep  has  locked  the  tide  of  sin, 

How  sweet  to  wake  to  consciousness — 
A  happier  day  would  then  begin. 

The  slumberer,  how  innocent  he  lies ! 

Passion's  dark  tide  is  calm  and  still ; 
No  thought  of  evil  stains  his  cheek — 

Like  sleeping  infant,  sleeps  his  will. 

His  dreams  are  wreathing  round  his  brow 
A  garland  of  life's  early  flowers ; 

He  smiles — he  weeps,  as  fancy  now 
Brings  back  those  long-forgotten  hours 

Oh,  that  on  waking,  all  might  feel 
That  thy  mild  eye  is  on  them  still, 

And  love  and  gratitude  to  God 

From  thence  each  human  bosom  fill ! 


THECREDITOE.  27 


THE   CREDITOR. 

BY    MRS.    J,    H.    HAXAFOKD. 

Keep  thy  spirit  pure 
From  v.orliliy  tuint,  by  the  repellant  power 
Of  virtue. — Bailey's  '■'^  Festuts." 

This  is  the  fruit  of  craa ; 
Like  him  that  shoots  up  high,  looks  for  the  shaft; 
And  finds  it  in  his  forehead. — Middletox. 

"  Well,  money  I  must  liave !"  soliloquized  Harry  Wliit- 
ford,  as  lie  leaned  back  in  liis  rocking-cliair  beside  the  tiro 
of  liis  fatlier's  office.  "  Debts  of  honor  must  be  paid,"  he 
continued,  "  and  if  I  can  not  earn  the  money,  I  must  borrow 
it.  I  was  a  fool  to  -be  enticed  by  Whipple  into  that  gam- 
bling saloon,  but  since  I  have  been  there,  and  lost  money, 
the  best  I  can  do  now  is  to  pay  it,  and  then  I  will  leave 
them  forever.  Oh,  how  my  angel  mother  would  grieve,  if 
she  were  on  earth,  at  beholding  her  child,  her  beloved  son, 
in  such  a  place,  for  such  a  purpose !  And  my  honored 
father,  why,  it  would  '  bring  down  his  gray  hairs  in  sorrow 
to  the  grave'  if  he  dreamed  the  truth ;  but  he  has  all  confi- 
dence in  me,  and  I  ought  to  be  noble  enough  to  act  worthily 
in  his  absence  as  well  as  in  his  presence  !  Alas,  that  I  should 
ever  have  acted  otherwise  than  he  would  desire !  I  should 
be  happier  to-night  if  I  had  spent  all  my  evenings  with  him, 
or  in  those  haunts  so  dear  to  him,  where  piety  and  virtue 
preside.  But,  at  any  rate,  I  must  have  money  now,  before  I 
can  break  away  from  them.  They  would  think  me  mean 
and  dishonorable  if  I  left  them  with  any  debts  of  honor 
unpaid." 

Harvey  arose,  and  paced  the  little  room  which  was  used 
by  his  fattier,  an  eminent  lawyer,  as  his  office.  Sometimes 
his  thoughts  seemed  pleasant,  and  then,  agaiji,  dark  shadows 
would  thicken  upon  his  fair  young  brow,  as  if  evil  thoughts 
were  reigning  in  his  bosom,  or  striving  for  the  mastery. 
Those  evil  monitors  triumphed,  and  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
approached  liis  father's  desk  : 

"I  must  have  money,  and  I  will  borrow  from  him.  Only 
ho/Tow  it.     By  industry  and  economy  I  can  soon  repay  it, 


28  TUE     CREDIT  OK. 

aud  lie  will  never  know.     I  would  ask  liim  for  it,  but  lie 
would  wisli  to  know  the  use  I  intended  to  make  of  it." 

Opening  tlie  desk  with  his  father's  keys,  which  he  took 
from  the  accustomed  place,  well  known  to  the  son,  from 
whom  his  father  did  not  dream  that  there  was  need  to  secrete 
them,  he  carefully  sought  for  the  amount  he  desired.  But 
it  was  not  there.  In  vain  he  looked  in  drawer,  box,  and 
pocket-book.  There  were  not  twenty  dollars  there,  and  he 
desired,  at  tlie  very  least,  a  hundred.  lie  remembered,  at 
last,  that  he  had  heard  his  father  speak  of  having  deposited 
nearly  all  his  money  in  the  bank,  and  he  wxll  knew  he  could 
not  obtain  it  from  thence  without  his  father's  knowledge. 
Then  he  thought  of  a  broker,  of  whom  his  tempter,  Whip- 
ple, had  told  him  ;  and  as  his  eye  fell  on  some  notes  of  hand 
belono^inff  to  his  father,  which  he  had  received  from  some 
clients,  who  were  not  p)rep>ared  to  remunerate  him  in  cash, 
the  evil  spirit,  looking,  as  the  German  legend  saith,  over 
Lis  left  shoulder,  prompted  him  to  take  one  of  them,  and 
seek  to  negotiate  with  that  broker  for  a  portion  of  its  present 
v^ortli,  leaving  the  note  in  pledge.  His  hand  trembled  as 
he  took  it,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  doing  an  act  which  in  his 
better  moments  he  should  not  approve,  but  the  e^dl  spirit 
whispered,  "  you  m^lst  have  the  money,"  and  the  note  was 
taken. 

Harvey  was  careful  to  take  one  which  would  not  become 
due  for  six  months,  and  as  he  intended  to  redeem  at  the  ex- 
piration of  one  month  certainly,  he  thought  he  should  escape 
detection  ;  and  he  argued  with  himself,  or  rather  silenced  the 
monitions  of  conscience,  ever  fiiitliful  to  her  trust  in  the 
youthful  bosom,  by  the  sophistry  which  said,  "I  am  only 
l)orrowing  it."  CarefuU}^  placing  the  note  in  bis  pocket- 
book,  he  sat  down  to  await  his  lather's  return,  when  he  in- 
tended to  go  out  himself  to  the  broker's  office,  and  then  to 
meet  his  gay  companions. 

Soon  that  father  entered,  but  no  smile  greeted  him  from 
that  guilty  son.  He  was  so  little  inured  to  crime  that  he 
could  not  act  with  willful  wickedness,  and  yet  evince  no 
compunction,  but  wear  a  gay  and  honest  exterior. 

"  Harry,"  said  his  father,  ''  I  have  been  so  successful  in 


THECREDITOK.  29 

business  of  late  that  I  can  afford  to  give  you  a  greater  salary 
for  your  services  in  my  office,  and  I  cheerfully  do  so." 

The  young  man  felt  truly  grateful,  and  from  his  heart 
thankfully  acknowledged  the  kindness.  Tlie  thought  came 
to  his  mind,  that  if  he  waited  a  short  time  he  would  earn  the 
money  he  was  now  intending  to  raise  on  that  stolen  note, 
and  he  was  half  inclined  to  put  it  back  silently  in  its  proper 
place,  and  requesting  his  companions  to  wait,  pay  them 
when  he  had  honestly  gained  money  enough.  But  then  he 
feared  they  would  think  him  mean,  and,  perhaps,  even  call 
him  so ;  and,  what  young  man  can  calmly  bear  that  cog- 
nomen of  contempt  ?  He  pleased  himself,  too,  with  the  idea 
that  if  he  paid  them  in  this  way,  he  would  leave  them  now, 
and  the  righteousness  of  one  act  would  compensate  for  the 
wickedness  of  the  other.  Parleying  with  sin  frequently 
leads  to  the  commission  of  evil,  and  this  young  man  left  his 
father's  house  that  night  intent  on  the  fulfillment  of  what  he 
deemed  a  necessary  purpose,  though  it  was  really  a  criminal 
one.  He  passed  hastily  along  the  street,  absorbed  in  thought 
as  to  his  deeds  and  designs,  until  he  found  himself  upon  the 
door-step  of  the  broker's  office.  A  moment's  hesitation,  as 
better  thoughts  came  to  his  mind,  and  then  he  entered. 

The  broker  knew  him  very  well ;  in  fact,  he  had  requested 
Whipple  to  entice  Whitford  there,  if  possible,  for  reasons 
which  he  chose  not  to  communicate.  He  was  careful,  how- 
ever, to  play  the  part  of  a  perfect  stranger  to  his  new  cus- 
tomer, and  received  him  with  extreme  politeness,  exhibited 
in  bows  and  flourishes,  which  were  not  very  pleasant  to  the 
purer  taste  of  the  young  man,  who  was  for  the  first  time 
about  to  be  entangled  in  the  net  of  a  crafty  and  deceitful  man. 
In  confused  terms  Whitford  succeeded  in  informiiio-  [Mr. 
Flint,  the  broker,  that  he  desired  some  money  on  a  note  of 
hand,  which  he  also  wished  to  redeem  in  a  short  time. 

'-  Step  this  way,"  said  ^Ir.  Flint,  and  they  were  both  soon 
seated  in  an  inner  room,  where  were  no  listeners  to  disturb 
them,  while  the  onlv  clerk  took  charo-e  of  the  outer  room. 
"  This  note  is  payable  to  Lawyer  Whitford,  I  perceive,"  said 
Mr.  Flint ;   " may  I  ask  if  you  are  related  to  him?" 

"I  am  his  son." 


30  THE    Cli  EDI  TOE. 

''  Oil,  all !"  said  tlie  broker,  and  seemed  as  if  musing  a 
moment.  It  was  bis  policy  to  appear  to  be  unwilling  to 
advance  tbe  money  desired  on  sucli  security,  tliougb,  for 
reasons  of  bis  own,  be  was  deligbted  witli  tbe  prospect  of 
getting  young  AVbitford  into  bis  power.  ''  Are  you  of  age, 
Mr.  Wbitford?  You  look  young,  and,  perbape,  it  would 
not  be  safe  for  me  to  deal  witb  a  minor." 

Wbitford  bad  commenced  tbe  downward  course,  and  be 
seemed  determined  to  pursue  it ;  for  be  not  only  revealed  by 
bis  earnest  manner  tbat  be  needed  tbe  money,  but  bis  un- 
guarded words  gave  tbe  sbrewd  broker  to  understand  tbat 
be  wislied  it  in  order  to  settle  debts  of  bonor,  and  tbat  bis 
fatber  was  botb  ignorant  of  tbe  son's  necessity,  and  of  tbe 
means  wbicb  be  bad  taken  to  obtain  tbe  desired  supply. 
Witb  a  malicious  twinkle  of  bis  cold,  gray  eye,  tbe  broker 
finally  consented  to  take  tbe  note  as  security,  and  advance 
tbe  required  sum  to  bis  new  customer,  requiring  from  bim 
a  written  promise  to  redeem  tbe  note  witbin  a  certain  time, 
or  forfeit  it.  He  secretly  boped  tbat  it  migbt  be  forfeited, 
but  in  eitber  case  be  boped  tbat  tbe  young  man  was  in  bis 
power. 

As  for  "Wbitford,  be  left  tbat  office  feeling  more  guilty 
tlian  be  ever  remembered  to  bave  felt  before.  He  knew 
tbat  be  bad  abused  tbe  confidence  of  bis  venerable  parent, 
and  was  ball-inclined  to  return  tbe  money,  and  carry  tbe 
note  to  its  place  again.  But  worldly  wisdom  triumpbed 
again,  and  be  bent  bis  steps  toward  a  noted  saloon,  in  wbicb 
be  expected  to  meet  bis  companions.  Advancing  witb  a 
firm  determination  to  play  no  more — not  only  to  abstain  on 
tbat  evening,  but  to  leave  tbis  baunt  of  iniquit}^  forever — be 
sbunned  tbose  wbo  would  urge  bim  to  play,  and  baving 
reacbed  tbose  to  wbom  be  believed  bimself  in  debt,  by  tbe 
false  laws  of  a  false  bonor,  be  delivered  to  tbem  tbe  money 
he  bad  just  obtained  by  tbe  sacrifice  of  bis  bonesty,  and 
hastilv  left  tbe  bouse. 

It  was  well  tbat  be  bad  strengtb  to  do  tbe  last  act,  for,  too 
often,  one  evil  act  leads  to  anotber  lower  in  tbe  scale  of 
virtue,  and  tbe  unwary  and  unwise  are  lost  in  tbe  vortex 
of  tbeir  own  folly.     Conscience,  bowever,  bad  been  true  to 


THE    CREDITOR.  31 

Harvej  Whitford's  best  interests,  and  he  heeded  her  voice 
in  this  matter.  After-life  proved  abundantly  to  him,  that  in 
forsaking  these  scenes  of  vicions  indulgence,  he  acted  totli 
wisely  and  well. 

A  month  passed  on.  Day  after  day  did  Harvey  fear  that 
his  father  would  discover  that  one  note  was  absent,  and  thiLS 
his  sin  be  discovered  to  him,  whom,  of  all  others,  he  desired 
to  keep  in  ignorance  of  his  transgressions.  Contrary  to 
his  exjjectations,  he  did  not  lind  himself  in  possession  of  suf- 
ficient money  to  redeem  his  pledge,  as  the  time  of  settlement 
drew  near.  He  had  endeavored  to  be  economical,  and  cer- 
tainly had  saved  more  than  u^sual,  but  not  enough.  The  fear 
of  inability  to  meet  Mr.  Flint's  demands  rested  upon  his 
mind,  as  a  mighty  incubus,  day  and  night,  till  appetite  van- 
ished and  despondency  settled  into  decided  ill-health.  All 
this  sufiering  as  the  result  of  sin !  Truly,  "  the  wages  of 
sin"  do  not  compensate  for  its  committal. 

The  day  of  settlement  came.  Harvey  knew  he  must  meet 
the  broker,  and  his  restlessness  was  so  evident  to  his  father, 
that  he  said,  "  My  son,  are  you  ill,  or  does  something  dis- 
quiet you,  and  prey  upon  your  spirits  ?  You  were  the  life 
of  our  little  circle  once,  but  you  are  sadly  changed.  Can  we 
not  relieve  you  ?" 

His  only  sister,  Lucy,  looked  up  with  earnest,  loving 
eyes,  and  echoed  the  words,  "  Can  we  not  relieve  you  ?" 

"  JSTo,  dear  ones,  do  not  be  so  alarmed  about  me.  I  shall 
recover  soon,"  and  so  saying,  he  hastily  left  the  room. 

He  walked  immediately  to  the  broker's,  and  was  soon 
seated  in  confidential  communion  with  Mr.  Flint,  whose 
heart  seemed  as  hard  as  his  name  mio^ht  indicate. 

"  ISTo,  I  can  have  no  other  terms.  The  money  must  bo 
paid  to-day,  young  man,  or  you  must  be  exposed." 

Whitford  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  left,  promising  to 
call  again  in  the  afternoon. 

"  You  must  call  before  three  o'clock  or  it  will  be  too  late," 
were  the  last  words  of  the  hard-hearted  and  unmerciful  cred- 
itor, and  Whitford  rushed  from  his  presence. 

"A  hundred  dollars  is  all  I  need  now,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  why  can  I  not  borrow  it  ?     Who  shall  I  ask  ?     If  I  ask  my 


32  THECKEDITOK. 

old  acquaintances,  they  will  woifder  why  I  do  not  ask  my 
father,  or,  perhaps,  inform  him,  inadvertently,  or  otherwise. 
If  I  ask  my  new  companions,  they  will  refuse  me,  because 
they  are  incensed,  I  know,  at  my  forsaking  their  unprofitable 
society.  In  short,  I  know  not  what  course  to  pursue ;  I  have 
tinned,  and  sin  has  always  its  punishment." 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  a  former  class-mate,  whose  means, 
though  somewhat  limited,  might  permit  him  to  render  aid, 
and  he  resolved  to  throw  himself  upon  his  confidence,  relate 
the  whole  afiair  to  him,  and  trust  to  his  Christian  principle 
and  native  kindness  of  heart,  for  the  aid  he  so  much  required. 

His  young  friend's  abode  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  city, 
but  he  hastened  onward  with  more  than  "American  speed," 
until  he  reached  the  place,  and  to  his  great  joy  discovered 
that  his  friend  was  at  home,  and  disposed  to  aid  him. 

The  sad  story  was  soon  told.  Mr.  Dinsmore,  the  young 
friend,  saw  that  while  Whitford  had  greatly  erred  in  adopt- 
ing an  evil  course,  to  be  delivered  from  the  first  difiiculty, 
he  had  yet  shown  a  desire  to  ([o  better  by  leaving  those  gay 
resorts,  and  there  was  hope  for  him  in  the  future.  He  sym- 
pathized with  Whitford,  too,  in  his  desire  to  keep  the  whole 
matter  a  secret  from  his  father,  lest  he  should  grieve  him  by 
the  sad  recital  of  his  misdeeds. 

With  a  glad  heart  Harvey  Whitford  set  out  on  his  return 
to  the  broker's.  Though  he  had  but  exchanged  one  creditor 
for  another,  the  note  would  be  redeemed,  and  he  would  be 
delivered  from  an  unmerciful  creditor,  who,  for  a  reason  he 
knew  not,  seemed  to  exult  in  his  inability  to  redeem  his 
pledge. 

As  he  reached  a  bridge,  which  spanned  an  arm  of  the  sea 
that  stretched  up  into  the  city,  he  saw  by  his  watch  that  his 
time  w^as  very  short.  At  that  moment  he  heard  a  loud 
shriek,  and  at  the  same  instant  saw  the  waves  close  over  a 
sinking  form,  while  some  little  girls  upon  the  bridge  were 
uttering  loud  and  repeated  cries  for  assistance. 

The  noble  heart  of  the  young  man  responded  to  the  ap- 
peal, and,  utterly  forgetful  of  himself  and  his  interests,  he 
leaped  into  the  waters  after  the  drov/ning  one.  He  was  suc- 
cessful.    For  a  few  moments  he  breasted  manfully  the  swell- 


THECKEDITOE.  33 

ing  tide,  bearing  the  young  girl  in  liis  arms,  and  soon  landed 
her  safely  upon  the  bridge  again.  Calling  some  ladies,  who 
had  just  arrived,  to  her  assistance,  after  seeing  that  she  was 
not  seriously  injured,  he  rapidly  darted  away  to  fultill  his 
engagement.  The  perspiration  rolled  from  his  brow  in 
large  drops  as  he  sped  onward,  while  those  whom  lie  met 
wondered  at  his  wet  clothing  and  great  haste  ;  for  oh,  how 
much  to  him  depended  on  a  timely  arrival  at  the  office  of 
the  broker ! 

He  reached  that  office  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  excite- 
ment, only  in  time  to  hear  the  broker  say,  "It  is  too  late, 
but  walk  into  my  office." 

Hoping  to  persuade  Mr.  Flint  to  yield  the  note,  "Whitford 
followed  him ;  but  how  great  was  his  surprise,  when  in- 
formed that  Flint  had  long  been  an  enemy  to  Lawyer  Whit- 
ford,  and  was  rejoiced  at  this  opportunity  to  be  revenged 
upon  him. 

"  Your  father,  Whitford,"  said  Flint,  "  will  not  mind  the 
loss  of  money  in  this  transaction  ;  it  is  the  disgraceful  con- 
duct of  his  son  which  will  wound  him  most  deeply." 

"Too  true!  too  true!"  exclaimed  Whitford.  "  Oh,  that 
I  could  have  reached  here  in  time !" 

"  AVhy  did  you  not,  if  you  were  really  desirous?" 

"Why,  why,"  looking  down  upon  his  wet  clothes,  whose 
appearance  he  had  forgotten,  "I  stopped  to  save  a  young 
miss  from  drowning." 

"  Good  !  good  for  me  !"  said  the  unmerciful  creditor.  "  I 
wonder  if  I  should  have  stopped  for  such  a  thing,  if  my  time 
had  been  so  valuable  !     Ha  !  ha !  ha  !" 

At  the  same  moment  an  inner  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Flint  appeared  (for  Mr.  Flint's  office  was  a  part  of  his  dwell- 
ing), conducting  a  girl  of  about  fourteen,  whose  dripping 
clothes  and  pallid  countenance  betokened  a  recent  submer- 
sion and  narrow  escape  from  drowning.  Several  of  her 
young  school-mates  followed. 

"  Mr.  Flint,  we  had  almost  lost  our  Susan.  She  has 
been — " 

"  Mother,  tliere  he  is  !" 

"  Mrs.  Flint,  there  is  !"  exclaimed  several  voices,  while 


34  THE    CKEDITOE. 

all  the  cliiklrcn  pointed  to  Mr.  Whitford ;  and  Mr.  Flint  soon 
perceived  that  his  debtor,  toward  whom  he  had  been  so  nn- 
mercifiil,  was  only  in  his  power  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
paused  on  his  way,  to  save  the  life  of  his  creditor's  only 
daughter. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  surprise  of  Mr.  Whitford,  but  no* 
greater  than  his  joy  at  receiving  the  repeated  thanks  of  both 
parents  and  daugliter,  while  the  father  reached  him  the  note, 
saying,  "  Take  it,  Mr.  Whitford.  From  this  day  I  am  your 
ii'iend,  and  your  father's  friend.  I  will  tako  no  money,  for.  I 
can  never  repay  you  for  your  kindness." 

Whitford  at  last  consented  to  avail  himself  of  this  inter- 
position,  which  seemed  to  him,  indeed,  providential,  and 
departed  for  his  home  with  a  light  and  happy  heart.  He 
■was  free  from  debt,  and  his  father 'b  note  was  in  his  posses- 
sion, and  was  speedily  returned  io  its  place.  The  money 
lent  him  by  his  young  friend  was  n^^  longer  needed,  and  was 
therefore  returned. 

The  father  and  sister  could  not  fail  to  perceive  a  great  and 
pleasant  change  in  Harvey,  and  asked  him  the  cause.  He 
finallv  concluded  that  it  was  his  deity  to  humble  himself, 
and  confess  the  whole,  which  he  did,  causing  surprise  at  the 
remarkable  Providence  which  ultimately  delivered  him. 
He  was  readily  forgiven  by  his  father,  who  saw  that  he  was 
truly  penitent,  and  believed  him  to  have  been  sufficiently 
punished  ;  but  he  could  not  forbear  reminding  him  that  the 
Scriptures  say,  "  The  way  of  transgressors  is  hard ;"  to  which 
the  son  agreed,  and  henceforth  followed  the  path  of  the  just^ 
which  leadeth  to  eternal  life. 


The  Gospel  as  an  Element  of  Progress. — The  sons  ol 
Chinese  peasants  could  read  and  write,  when  the  princes  of 
England  were  ignorant  of  both.  China  has  since  made  n<r 
advance  ;  Avhile  England  has  reached  a  height  of  civilizatloD 
that  no  one  at  that  time  could  have  formed  any  idea  of. 
England  has  had  the  gospel,  China  has  been  without  i^-. 
This  accounts  for  their  relative  change  of  position. 


S  O  X  X  ^.  T  S — N  I  A  G  A  K  A  .  35 

SOITl^ETS-NIAGAKA 

BY       HORACE       DRKSSER,      ESQ. 

Heaven  archeth  o'er  thy  gates,  great  deluge-boru  ! 
With  bow  that  sprang  from  world-submerging  waves 
Below  its  circling  reach  thy  maddened  flood  here  ravea 
And  notches  forth  on  walls  of  adamant  deep  worn, 
The  years  that  have  been  since  thy  birth-day  morn ! 
Forever  lost  the  bark  that  rashly  braves 
The  war  of  adverse  waters — no  arm  saves  ! 
Proud  kings  and  purpled  potentates  of  earth, 
With  trophies  boi-ne  in  march  from  battle-plain, 
Where  sleep  the  glorious  dead  in  havoc  slain, 
Sound  clarion  loud  and  seek  the  distant  hearth, 
Through  arch  triumphal  reared  at  pkce  of  birth- 
How  mean  are  they  beside  thy  monarch  train, 
And  goings  forth  to  join  the  stormy  Main 


I 


Earth  trembleth  at  thy  passing,  mighty  flood ' 
And  from  the  secret  chambers  of  the  deep, 
The  voices  of  thy  many  waters  keep, 

In  thunder-tones  and  wild  majestic  mood, 

One  everlasting  anthem  praising  God! 

Thy  fearful  pathway  leads  thee  o'er  a  steep, 
Which  thou  thyself  alone  dost  dare  to  leap ! 

I  feel  to  worship  here  :  and  from  this  seat, 
High  o'er  the  beetling  cliffs  above  the  brink 
Of  thy  abyss,  will  wonder  gaze  and  think : — 

How  restless  is  thy  surge  beneath  ray  feet! 

For  ever  rolling  rushing  on  to  meet 

Old  ocean's  boundless  depths,  for  aye  to  siri 
Into  oblivion,  whence  we  mortals  shrink! 

"The  floods  have  lifted  up,  O  Lord! 
The  floods  have  lifted  up  their  voice  : 
The  floods  lift  up  their  waves — 
The  Lord  on  high 

Is  mightier  than  the  noise  of  many  waters, 
Yea,  than  the  mighty  waves  of  the  sea ! 
For  the  Lord  is  a  great  God, 
And  a  great  King  above  all  gods. 
In  his  hand  are  the  deep  places  of  the  Earth; 
The  strength  of  the  hills  is  his  also. 
The  sea  is  his  and  he  made  it : 
And  his  hands  formed  the  dry  land." 


36  TRUTH. 


TRUTH. 


BY    S.    A.    ANDREWS. 


Truth  is  a  representation  of  tilings  as  tliey  are ;  a  strici 
adherence  to  reality.  The  opposite  of  Truth  is  falsehood,  a 
deviation  from  reality  and  a  resort  to  representations  dissim 
ilar  from  the  represented.  The  one  is  an  element  of  uncor- 
rupted  intellectuality,  the  other  follows  in  the  wake  of 
degeneracy  and  accompanies  the  retrograde  of  humanity. 
Truth  descended  from  above,  came  among  men  a  white- 
winged  angel  from  celestial  courts.  Falsehood,  robed  in 
gloomy  attire,  came  up  from  the  realms  of  night,  and  nestles 
close  to  the  human  heart,  a  shadow  dark  from  the  deep 
Abyss. 

An  ancient  writer  says,  the  education  of  the  Persians  con- 
sisted in  teaching  their  children  to  ride,  to  shoot  the  bow, 
and  to  spealc  the  truth.  The  Indian  in  his  savage  state  knows 
no  greater  crime  than  falsehood.  This  is  because  Truth  is  an 
attendant  upon  nature.  Truth  only  subjects  ns  to  incon- 
venience and  difficulty  when  conventionality  has  instituted 
a  code  of  perfectibility-  Pride  influences  the  abandonment 
of  Truth  and  the  adoption  of  Falsehood,  but  it  is  a  pride  as 
false  as  it  is  contemptible.  We  would  be  thought  greater 
than  we  are.  We  are  unwilling  to  be  known  in  our  true 
light.  We  dare  not  acknowledge  our  weak  points.  Veracity, 
though  the  life-blood  of  true  and  continued  enjoyment,  is 
forsaken  to  attain  the  short-lived  results  flowing  from  craft 
and  delusion,  and  the  fine  affinities  and  high  pulse-beats 
binding  our  thoughts  to  objects  of  noble  characters  and  link- 
ing our  destinies  to  heaven,  are  ruptured  and  stilled  by  this 
desertion.  Falsehood  is  the  prime  minister  of  degredation— 
the  great  diplomatist  of  hell, and  in  giving  it  audience  in  the 
council-chamber  of  the  soul,  we  are  opening  the  fortress  to 
a  master  enemy,  who  will  infuse  into  the  moral  system  a 
poison  of  deadliest  composition.  Truth  is  lovely  in  its  stead- 
fastness— falsehood  detestable  in  its  fickleness.  While  the 
one  is   as  firm  as   Mont  Blanc,  the  other  is  as  fickle  and 


TEUTH.  37 

brief  as  the  electric  flash  which  vanishes  into  the  jaws  of 
darkness.  The  one  elevates,  the  other  lowers.  They  seek 
their  birth-places,  the  one  drawn  bv  fibers  of  light,  the  other 
bj  cords  of  darkness. 

Falsehood  has  almost  become  an  essential  qnalification  to 
success.  Our  modern-da j  society  is  so  fashioned,  its  organ- 
ization constituted  bv  those  who  flatter  and  who  are  flattered, 
that  he  who  enters  into  its  charmed  circle,  and  adheres 
strictly  to  lionesty  of  motive  and  of  action,  is  regarded  as  a 
simpleton,  and  forthwith  ejected  therefrom.  Deception  and 
intrigue  are  the  levers  by  which  purpose-s  are  too  generally 
accomplished.  Our  boasted  aristocracy  kneel  at  the  gilded 
shrine  of  adulation,  and  pay  their  gifts  to  the  fickle  goddess 
of  sycophancy.  To  them,  flattery  is  a  sweet  morsel,  and 
others  receive  it  at  their  hands,  that  it  may  be  returned  to 
the  donors.  Deception  is  not  a  natural  element  of  society — ■ 
it  is  but  an  excrescence  of  human  character,  developed  by 
appliances  worked  by  him 

"  Whose  throne  is  darkness,  in  the  abyss  of  night." 

It  is  a  spurious  currency,  put  into  circulation  by  moral 
bankrupts,  whose  pure  coin  has  been  exhausted  to  give  a 
seeming  color  to  the  false.  Flattery  is  a  detestable  sj^ecies 
of  untruth,  prompted  by  fear,  interest,  or  tenderness,  all  too 
prevalent  in  society.  It  is  opposed  fro  Truth,  because  it  is  an 
art ;  Truth  is  nature — nature  in  its  pristine  excellence  and 
beauty.  Truth  is  unpleasant,  because  our  natures  become 
23erverted.  The  elements  of  moral  death,  implanted  in  the 
human  heart  by  the  great  transgression,  superinduce  inclina- 
tions and  practices  which  are  hostile  to  the  revelation  and 
promptings  of  Truth,  but  this  influence  is  a  powe^'  discon- 
nected from  nature,  having  an  abstract  existence  of  its  own. 
All  nature  is  Truth ;  its  development  is  the  development  of 
Truth,  but  deception  is  the  result  of  study,  and  appeals  to  the 
weaknesses  of  humanity.  Truth  is  a  revelation  of  the  silent 
language  of  God's  universe,  a  daguerreotype  of  its  harmony : 
but  deception  is  the  development  of  discord,  the  tongue  of 
ejected  angels. 

"Vanity  is  a  great  obstacle  to  the  prevalence  of  Truth. 


38  TKUTH. 

Cowardice  from  fear  of  results  contributes  to  its  growth,  not 
willfully,  but  from  a  want  of  manly  independence.  Tliere 
are  many  guilty  of  untrutli,  wdiom  we  know  to  be  positively 
opposed  to  it.  The  flattery  of  cowardice  springs  from  the 
head,  not  from  the  heart;  and  is  awarded  by  the  timorous 
one  to  him  whose  talents  or  position  elevate  him  above  the 
multitude,  or  to  whom  universal  attention  is  directed.  Yan- 
ity  is  extremely  desirous  of  being  pleased,  and  publicity ; 
attaching  itself  to  endeavors  to  gratify  others,  it  secures  the 
coveted  object  by  bestowing  praise  where  it  is  unmerited, 
or  bestow^ing  honor  where  it  should  not  be  bestowed.  The 
better  class  of  society,  however,  repudiate  this  recourse,  so 
unjustifiable.  Reason  accompanies  Truth,  and  they  are  con- 
tent to  recognize  man  as  a  being  endowed  with  reason,  not 
as  an  automaton,  to  be  moved  by  a  set  of  arbitrary  rules. 
Impudence,  backed  up  and  sustained  by  the  passions,  retires 
before  the  light  of  intelligence,  and  the  better  nature  of  man 
shakes  off  this  antiquated  evil,  and  deals  with  \t&  fellow- 
nature  as  it  desires  it  to  deal  in  return. 

On  account  of  the  stern  and  forbidding  aspect  of  Truth, 
many,  who  hug  its  enemy  1:o  their  breast  because  it  comes 
attired  in  fanciful  and  pleasant  robes,  reject  it  as  unworthy 
their  acceptation.  Attempts  have  been  made  to  obviate  this 
difficulty,  by  philosophers  of  the  transcendental  school,  who 
endeavored  to  inculcate  its  precepts  through  the  medium  of 
fiction.  This  investing  the  desires  of  the  heart  with  supreme 
command,  in  order  to  lure  man  on  to  his  best  good,  is  exer- 
cising a  perogative  of  doubtful  propriety.  But  we  do  not 
propose  a  discussion  of  the  subject  in  the  present  article. 
High  imaginings,  and  an  earnest  longing  after  the  unattained 
and  unattainable  ideal,  have  doubtless  resulted  in  loeneficial 
consequents,  for  this  restless  aspiration  is  the  fundamental 
principle  of  progression  ;  but  the  j)roper  medium  for  the  ex- 
pression of  these  fine  thoughts  is  poetry.  This,  when  not 
prostituted  to  unholy  purposes,  exerts  an  influence  upon  the 
mind,  pure  and  elevated  in  its  character.  There  may  be 
higher  w^orks  of  fictitious  prose,  wdiose  influence  is  good ;  but 
in  process  of  time  Truth  will  have  no  interest  unless  it  is 
invested  in  the  beautiful  robe  of  fiction.     We  do  not  war 


T  E  U  T  H  .  39 

against  all  fictitious  works,  for  some  tliere  are  wliose  effects 
are  pure,  but  it  is  against  the  idea  of  teacliing  truth  by  their 
instrumentalitj  wholly  that  we  write.  The  mothers  and  in- 
structors of  our  land,  are  to  impress  upon  the  mind,  in  its 
flexible  ao-e,  the  love  for  truth,  and  abhorrence  of  falsehood, 
which  shall  adhere  to,  and  characterize  it,  in  its  maturity. 
Let  them  imitate  the  example  of  the  ancient  Persians,  and  a 
moral  lio^lit  will  emanate  from  our  land,  that  shall  illumine 
the  world. 

We  live  in  an  age  of  great  progress.  ]S'ew  truths,  or, 
rather,  latent  truths,  are  being  constantly  developed,  and 
these  truths  are  opening  the  dawn  of  a  better  day.  The 
traces  of  the  iron  age  are  being  rapidly  obliterated,  and 
the  period,  the  period  of  Truth,  fast  approaching.  Incor- 
rect principles  are  giving  place  to  correct  ones,  and  he 
who  charges  the  age  as  being  too  practical,  is  libelling 
Truth.  Falsehood  prevails,  but  its  prerogatives  are- con- 
stantly curtailed  and  lessened.  Every  "Maine  Law"  is 
an  exhibition  of  the  triumph  of  Truth,  to  be  followed  by 
displays  more  high  and  noble.  That  it  is  eminently  practical 
we  admit,  but  they  are  developments  of'  Truth,  showing 
more  fully  than  before,  the  relations  of  humanity  to  the 
present  and  future. 

Tlie  present,  rife  with  startling  consequences,  which  shall 
work  out  for  the  future  inhabitants  of  the  world  results  ben- 
ificent  or  evil,  imposes  weighty  obligations  upon  us.  Tliese 
obligations  are,  that  we  be  more  truthful,  truthful  to  our- 
selves, to  our  fellow-men,  to  our  country,  to  our  God.  Truth 
is  too  much  disregarded.  ^Ye  pay  too  great  respect  to  the 
false  codes  instituted  by  conventionality.  AYe  regulate  our 
lives  by  the  opinions  of  others — our  actions  by  their  appro- 
bation or  condemnation.  This  is  oppression — o]3pres3ion  of 
ignoble  caste,  for  it  enslaves  our  intellectual  and  moral  sen- 
timents ;  imposes  a  servitude,  whose  task-master  is  public 
opinion,  upon  our  inner  life.  Freedom  is  truth,  the  magna 
charta  of  rights  given  to  every  human  being.  Live  by  this 
charter,  boldly  exercise  the  privileges  it  confers,  do  battle 
for  them  in  the  intellectual  world,  and  you  will  discharge 
your  dutv. 


Mitljiii  tljis  lliuuble  gtoclliiig. 


Music  and  Poetiy  impromptu, 


-2r 


^f=f 


=EB 


jiizzt 


By  Thomas  Hastings,  Esq 


-I h 


iqz: 


1.  With  -  in     this  hum-ble   dwell-ing,  Sweet  place  of    our    a    -    bode, 


i 


^ 


qz-mt-^ 


'-'^- 


— I- 


^- 


=1- 


^—^ 


'&- 


I 


2.    His     mer-cies   are     for  -  ev   -   er,    His   goodness  who  can       tell  ? 


^- 


-^- 


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He      will    for-sake    us     ne   -  ver,  He       do  -  eth   all   things  well. 


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4. 
When  sore  afflictions  tried  us, 

He  chastened  but  in  love, 
That  mercy  might  provide  us 

A  sweeter  home  above. 


And  He  that  hath  forgiven 
The  folly  of  our  ways, 

Preparing  us  for  heaven, 
To  Him  be  all  the  praise. 


MATERNAL    INFLUENCE. 

BY    J.   B.   HOAG. 


It  is  universally  conceded,  that  early  impressions  are  the 
most  abiding,  and  best  calculated  to  exert  an  influence  on  our 
after  life  and  character,  i^o  one  capable  of  making  correct  ob- 
servations on  the  developments  of  the  character  of  the  differ- 
ent classes  of  men  will  be  diposed  to  doubt  this,  or  deny  that, 
of  all  the  agencies  employed  in  the  formation  of  character, 
maternal  influence  is  not  the  least  inconsiderable  or  import- 
ant. The  mother  occupies  a  j^osition  at  once  fraught  with 
interest  and  responsibility.  It  is  her's  to  implant  in  the 
young  and  tender  minds  of  her  oft'spring  those  sentiments 
of  piety  and  principles  of  rectitude  which  are  to  govern  their 
future  career  in  this  world,  and  perhaps  fix  their  eternal 
destiny  in  a  position  of  happiness  in  a  future  state  of  exist- 
ence. The  mother  who  fails  to  do  this  is  guilty  of  a  flagrant 
omission  of  most  apparent  duty,  and  may  reap  the  reward 
of  her  neglect  in  witnessing  in  her  children  the  growth  and 
exhibition  of  pernicious  principles,  and  unchecked  and  un- 
restrained passions — to  prove  the  bane  of  her  life,  and  plant 
thorns  in  her  dying  pillow.  We  can  scarcely  conceive  of  a 
more  afflicting  circumstance,  or  one  more  calculated  to 
pierce  the  heart  of  a  mother  with  the  sharpest  pangs  of  re- 
morse, than  to  have  her  remonstrances  with  a  wayward 
child,  verging  to  man  or  womanhood,  met  by  an  accusation 
of  neglect  of  duty,  and  feel,  but  too  late,  that  it  is,  alas  ! 
too  true. 

The  wisest  and  best  men  that  ever  lived,  and  whose  lives 
maybe  regarded  as  beacons  for  those  who  follow  them  in 
the  great  drama  of  life,  have  most  cordially  attributed  to  the 
fidelity  and  judicious  training  exercised  over  them  by  their 
mothers,  all  they  have  ever  been,  or  achieved,  that  was  praise- 
worthy or  beneficial  to  others.  Such  a  tribute  tlie  justly 
celebrated  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  his  la?^-  days,  after  a  long 

3 


46  M  A  T  E  R  N  A  L     I  N  F  L  TJ  E  N  0  E. 

and  brilliant  career,  wlien  standing  on  the  borders  of  tliQ 
grave,  while  looking  back  on  a  life  spent  in  usefulness, 
and  with  his  name  stamped  high  on  the  pinnacle  of  renown, 
paid  to  the  fidelity  and  watchfulness  of  his  venerated  moth- 
er. And  the  immortal  Washington,  too,  gave  her  who  had 
watched  over  his  infiintile  moments,  and  guided  his  early 
feet  in  the  ways  of  virtue,  the  praise  of  all  that  was  great 
and  glorious  in  his  life  and  character. 

The  means  w^hich  may  be  employed  by  a  judicious  mother 
to  implant  in  the  minds  of  her  offspring  the  seeds  of  virtue 
and  piety,  are  too  numerous  to  admit  of  detail  in  this  brief 
sketch ;  but  we  regard  one  as  of  most  essential  benefit,  and 
best  calculated  to  be  productive  of  happy  effect — which  is, 
teaching  children  at  an  early  age  the  duty  of  prayer.  We 
can  conceive  of  no  sublimer  sis-ht  in  nature,  nor  one  which 
the  bright,  angelic  beings  who  inhabit  the  world  of  light 
above  would  be  likely  to  regard  wdtli  more  pleasing  emo- 
tions, if  they  in  their  habitation  of  glorious  felicity  are  per- 
mitted to  take  cognizance  of  what  transpires  on  this  sin- 
stricken  earth,  and  feel  an  interest  in  what  is  calculated  to 
eventuate  in  the  welfare  of  the  human  race,  and  the  glory 
of  the  supreme  Ruler  of  the  universe,  than  a  mother  teach- 
ing her  infant  child,  yet  uncontaminated  with  the  baneful 
influences  that  surround  us  in  this  world,  to  lisp  the  praises 
of  its  great  Creator,  and  implore  His  fatherly  care  and  pro- 
tection. 

Turn  now  to  the  engraving,  and  see  how  vivid  the  repre- 
sentation which  the  artist  has  given  of  such  a  scene.  Seated 
on  his  couch,  ere  he  retires  to  rest  for  the  night,  the  mother 
folds  her  child  to  her  bosom,  and  with  his  little  hands 
clasped  and  raised  to  heaven,  he  repeats  after  her  his  evening 
prayer,  while  innocence  and  devotion  beam  from  every 
lineament  of  his  countenance.  In  future  life,  when  far  dis- 
tant from  the  home  of  his  childhood,  when  engaged  in  the 
busy  scenes  of  life,  w^ill  memory  revert  to  that  hour,  and  the 
impressions  then  received  will  never,  never  be  erased,  amid 
the  hurry,  and  bustle,  and  conflicts  of  the  world,  but  be  to 
him  like  a  guardian  angel,  to  keep  him  from  deviating  from 
the  path  "f '•'a:ht  or  gently  admonishing  to  retrace  his  steps, 


MATEEXAL     INFLUENCE.  47 

if  lie  lias  already  deviated  from  wisdom's  pleasant  ways 
Be  assured,  that  slie  who  devoutly  does  this,  is  securing  for 
lier  child  the  greatest  possible  good.  AYhat  though  in  ma- 
turer  years  it  may  seem  to  be  ineffectual  and  abortive ;  what 
though  her  child  may  be  guilty  of  great  and  fearful  wander- 
ings from  the  path  of  rectitude,  the  early  prayer,  the  j^ious 
counsel,  taught  and  imparted  by  the  careful  mother,  will  be 
like  bread  cast  upon  the  waters,  which  shall  return  after 
many  days. 

The  history  of  the  world  is  replete  with  instances  of  this 
character,  which  stand  before  the  world  as  so  many  monu- 
ments to  maternal  fidelitv,  and  should  have  the  effect  to 
stimulate  mothers  to  renewed  zeal  and  increasing  fidelity  in 
this  important  duty. 

From  the  many  facts  of  this  nature,  which  happily  illus- 
trate the  beneficent  effects  which  we  might  furnish,  we  have 
selected  the  following  truthful  incident.  In  the  quiet  and 
retired  village  of  S.,  in  the  State  of  Yermont,  lived  Mrs. 
Shelton,  a  lady  of  talents  and  eminent  piety,  beloved  and 
respected  by  all  who  knew  her.  She  had  but  one  son,  her 
darling  Alfred,  on  whom  she  bestowed  all  the  tenderness 
and  religious  instruction  which  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
bestow.  As  soon,  as  his  opening  intellect  was  capable  of 
understanding  her  words,  she  sought  to  impress  him  with 
his  duty  to  his  heavenly  Father,  and  ere  he  was  capable  of 
speaking  plain,  he  was  tauglit  to  lisp  his  infantile  prayer. 
Her  husband  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  totally  neglected 
the  religious  education  of  his  boy — though  it  would  be  doing 
him  a  glaring  injustice  to  say  that  he  was  not  an  affection- 
ate father  ;  but  how  could  he  impart  what  he  did  not  pos- 
sess ?  While  he  sought  to  place  within  the  reach  of  his  son 
all  the  means  of  securing  a  competence,  and  occupying  an 
honorable  and  desirable  position  in  life,  so  far  as  earthly 
good  and  literary  accomplisliments  were  concerned,  he  never 
seemed  to  realize  that,  in  omitting  to  turn  his  early  feet  into 
the  paths  of  virtue  and  religion,  he  was  neglecting  to  confer 
on  him  the  greatest  possible  good. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  Alfred  followed  his  mother  to  her 
final  resting-place.     Bitter,  indeed,  were  the  tears  he  shed, 


48  MATERNAL     INFLUENCE. 

but  it  was  impossible  for  bim  to  fully  appreciate  tbe  loss  bo 
bad  sustained. 

Soon  after  bis  motber's  demise,  bis  fatber  sent  bim  to  a 
wealtby  relative  in  tbe  city  of  Kew  York,  wbere  be  became 
associated  witb  many  wbo  lived  only  for  pleasure,  and 
almost  unconsciously  to  bimself,  by  imperceptible  degrees, 
became  contaminated  by  tbe  baneful  inlluences  witb  wbicb 
be  was  surrounded.  lie  forgot,  alas !  tbe  teacbings,  tbe  coun- 
sels, tbe  admonitions  of  bis  sainted  motber,  and  in  a  few 
montbs  after  taking  up  bis  abode  in  tbat  great  emporium,  be 
wbo  bad  been  most  carefully  taugbt  to  sbun  even  tbe  least 
appearance  of  evil,  could  unblusbingly  mingle  witb  tbe  pro- 
fane,  tbe  intemperate,  and  tbe  vile,  and  witb  tbem  participate 
in  tbeir  unballowed  doings.  He  was  attentive  to  business,  and 
tbus  won  and  retained  tbe  esteem  of  bis  employer ;  but  tbore 
was  at  tbe  core  of  bis  beart  a  moral  canker  tbat  destroyed 
bis  peace  of  mind,  and  transformed  tbe  exemplary  youtb  to 
an  open  violator  of  plain  requisitions  of  morality  and  re- 
ligion. Tbougb  educated  to  reverence  and  love  tbe  Sabbatb 
and  its  ordinances,  be  bad  learned  to  scoff  at  religion,  and 
absent  bimself  from  tbe  bouse  of  God,  and  spent  bis  even- 
ings witb  tbe  votaries  of  pleasure,  apparently  forgetful  of 
moral  obligations  tbat  rested  npon  bim. 

Tbus  years  passed  on.  His  course  was  still  (''ownward  ;  be 
stilled  tbe  ever  faitbful  monitions  of  conscibx^ce,  and  still 
pursued  bis  fearful  career,  regardless  of  tbe  certain  penalty 
of  doing  wrong.  Any  one  wbo  knew  bim  once  and  knew 
him  now,  could  bardly  bave  believed  it  possible  for  so  great 
a  cbange  to  bave  been  effected  in  any  one. 

Five  years  after  bis  arrival  in  tbe  city,  as  be  w^as  return- 
ing one  evening  to  bis  lodgings,  be  passed  a  door  tbat  stood 
ajar  ;  bis  attention  was  arrested  by  a  soft  voice,  and,  turning 
bis  eyes  in  tbat  direction,  be  saw  a  cliild  kneeling  by  tbe 
side  of  bis  motber,  witb  ber  band  placed  npon  bis  bead, 
wbile  be  repeated  bis  prayer  after  ber.  Tbe  sigbt  carried 
an  arrow  of  conviction  to  bis  guilty  soul.  His  tbougbts 
reverted  to  tbe  time  wben,  like  tbe  innocent  cbild  before 
bim,  be  lisped  bis  infantile  petitions  after  bis  motber,  wbo 
was  now  a  glorified  saint  in  beaven.     He  retired  to  bis  own 


MATERNAL    INFLUENCE.  49 

apartments,  and  reflected  on  his  present  degraded,  sinful 
condition  in  contrast  with  his  former  days  of  comparative 
innocence.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  soft,  gentle  voice  of  his 
mother  whispering  words  of  warning  in  his  ear.  He  thought, 
if  she  were  now  living,  and  knew  of  his  dissolute  habits  and 
abandoned  character,  how  it  would  grieve  her ;  and,  resting 
his  head  upon  his  hands,  lie  wept  aloud.  "My  mother  !  Oh 
my  mother,"  he  cried,  "  can  thy  gentle  spirit  look  dowi 
upon  thy  wretched  son  !"  For  a  time  he  yielded  himself  to 
the  paroxysms  of  grief.  At  last  he  threw  himself  upon  his 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  He  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  future, 
and  saw  a  fearful  abyss  before  him. 

He  resolved  to  make  one  more  effort  to  escape  the  threat- 
ened destiny,  and  when  the  glorious  sun  arose,  it  shone  upon 
Alfred  Shelton  a  reformed  man.  He  had  tasted  enough  of 
the  wormwood  and  the  gall  to  induce  him  to  adhere  to  his 
resolutions  to  reform,  and  in  vain  did  his  former  associates 
seek  to  induce  him  to  join  them  again  in  their  unhallowed 
vocations.  He  became  an  exemplary  Christian ;  and  when 
speaking  of  his  Christian  experience,  always  attributed  his 
redemption  from  the  consequence  of  a  fearful  departure 
from  right,  to  the  early  counsels,  pious  instruction,  and 
prayers  taught  him  by  his  mother.  Facts  like  these  should 
stimulate  Christian  mothers  in  the  discharge  of  their  duty 
toward  their  children:  and  let  them  remember,  that  the 
time  will  come  when  it  will  be  demanded  oi  them  what  they 
have  done  with  the  children  committed  to  tneir  charge. 


IToTHTN-G  is  less  siuccre  than  our  manner  of  asking  and  of 
giving  advice.  He  who  asks  advice  would  seem  to  have 
a  respectful  deference  for  the  opinion  of  his  friend,  while 
yet  he  only  aims  at  getting  his  own  approved  of,  and 
making  that  friend  responsible  for  his  conduct.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  who  gives  advice  repays  the  confidence 
supposed  to  be  placed  in  him  by  a  seemingly  disinterested 
zeal,  while  he  seldom  means  more  than  his  own  interest  or 
reputation. 


IMMORTALITY  OF  INFLUENCE. 

BY    REV.    JAMES    HOYT. 

Man  was  immortal  made  ; 
Thought  of  all  tlioughts,  most  glorious,  most  sublime. 
When  angel-trumpets  sound  the  knell  of  time, 

And  plants  have  decayed; 

Transferi'ed  to  other  spheres, 
On,  on,  unmeasured  by  the  scale  of  ji-ears, 
This  conscious  being  shall  forever  run, 
Like  Him  from  whom  it  came — the  uncreated  One. 

Mind  lives  again  in  mind ; 
We  each  on  other  set  our  living  seal ; 
Each  act,  each  word,  whate'er  we  think  or  feel, 

Is  in  some  heart  enshrined; 

'Twas  in  its  birth  our  own. 
Yet  lives  without  us ;  lives  when  we  are  gone, 
Shall  live  forever,  or  to  bless,  or  curse, 
This  vast  domain  of  life — this  peopled  universe. 

A  stone  dropped  in  the  lake, 
Sends  circling  wavelets  to  the  farthest  shore ; 
Each  fluttering  leaf,  each  moving  wing  has  power 

The  realms  of  air  to  shake  ; 

Each  rain-drop  on  the  waves 
Stirs  every  drop  in  ocean's  boundless  caves; 
The  lightest  footfall  jars  the  solid  earth  ; 
So  mind  reacts  on  mind,  so  thought  to  thought  gives  birth. 

And  is  it,  is  it  so  ? 
From  all  my  heart  indulges,  shall  I  see 
Issues  momentous  as  eternity, 

Forever,  ever  flow  ? 

Be  watchful,  then,  my  soul ,' 
Thy  deeds,  thy  thoughts,  thy  wishes  so  control. 
That  each  done,  thought,  or  wished  by  myriads  more, 
Shall  prove  a  type  nor  thou  nor  they  will  e'er  deplore 


CHANCE-KESCUED.  51 


CHANCE-RESCUED;   OE,   THE  OCEAN  BRAVE. 

BY    MRS.    E.    D.    RAYMOND, 

Thousaj^ds  of  people  wlio  have  lived  in,  or  visited  Kew 
England's  metropolis  within  the  past  three  years,  will  recol- 
lect with  Avhat  admiration  they  stood  before  the  window  of 
a  picture  dealer  and  frame  manufacturer  in  Court  Street, 
and  gazed  npon  one  of  Drew's  beautiful  marine  pieces, 
wdiere,  in  the  midst  of  a  wild,  terrible  storm  at  sea,  a  dis- 
masted and  water-logged  ship  is  seen,  with  the  mad,  tempest- 
di'iven  waves  dashing  over  her,  and  some  fifteen  wretched 
human  beings  (among  them  three  females)  are  clinging  to 
the  wreck  for  life. 

ISTear  the  disabled  ship  lies,  hove  to,  a  magnificent  Balti- 
more-built bark,  under  the  smallest  possible  amount  of 
sail,  while,  almost  down  to  the  wreck,  is  seen  a  tinj  boat, 
manned  bj  six  brave  felloAvs,  in  red  flannel  shirts,  canvas 
trousers,  and  tarpaulin  hats,  bending  as  if  their  owm  lives 
depended  upon  every  stroke,  to  their  supple  oak  blades,  and 
sending  their  gallant  little  craft  climbing  up  the  foam- 
wreathed  hill-side,  or  plunging  headlong  down  the  liquid 
ravine,  despite  the  howling  blast  and  mad,  yelling  surges. 

In  the  stern  sheets  of  the  boat,  stands  a  tall,  athletic 
figure,  his  eyes,  which  you  can  see  th\3  color  of,  even  in  the 
distance,  fairly  flashing  with  excitement ;  while  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, his  arms  bared  to  the  elbow,  his  hat  blown  far  away 
to  leeward  by  the  gale,  his  hair  streaming  out  like  ten  thou- 
sand tiny  pennants,  his  right  hand  grasping  the  boat's  helm 
with  a  fierceness  that  causes  the  brawny  muscles  to  stand 
out  in  relief  like  writhing  serpents,  and  his  left  outstretched, 
is  waved  toward  the  sufterers  of  the  wreck  in  the  act  of 
encouragement. 

A  thousand — perhaps  ten  thousand  times — the  questions 
have  been  asked  as  people  stood  there,  before  that  window, 
gazing  upon  the  almost  living,  breathing  picture,  "  Who 
are  they?  What  does  the  painting  represent?"  and  the 
answer  has  been,  "  I  don't  know." 


52  CUANCE-RESCUED. 

Eeader,  let  me  wliispcr  to  you  that  each  face  in  that  boat 
is  a  portrait,  and  a  most  capital  one  too.  That  of  the  tall 
man  in  the  stern  sheets,  as  good  a  likeness  as  painter  ever 
executed. 

Shall  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  the  original  of  that  picture? 
that  I  stood  upon  the  deck  of  that  gallant  American  bark, 
and  watched  with  all  a  woman's  eagerness  and  dread,  with 
all  a  wife's  apprehension,  that  brave  boat  and  her  heroic 
crew,  as  they  went  struggling  on,  battling  with  the  mighty 
elements,  and  winning  their  way  inch  by  inch,  till  the  wrect 
was  gained  and  her  passengers  rescued? 

I  will  inform  vou  that  the  commander  of  that  American 
bark,  the  man  at  the  helm  of  the  venturesome  boat,  was 
and  is,  my  husband. 

Strange  !  you  would  say  ;  but  it  it  is  not  very.  jSlo  more 
strange  than  that  I  should  have  been  another  man's  wife,  or 
that  some  one  else  than  my  husband  should  have  rescued 
those  fifteen  human  beings  from  certain  and  speedy  death. 
There  is  a  much  stranger  feature  in  the  incident,  which,  if 
you  have  the  patience  and  curiosity  generally  attributed  to 
story  readers,  you  Vvdll  listen  attentively  to,  while  I  relate  it 
in  as  few  words  as  possible. 

It  was  the  latter  part  of  December,  1849,  when  we  left 
Euenos  Ayres,  in  the  superb  bark  Madonna,  bound  for 
Boston.  It  was  most  lovely  weather;  but  to  those  much 
conversant  with  the  'fickle,  changing  atmosphere  of  the 
ocean — like  Eio  de  la  Plata — there  were  ample  signs  of  an 
approaching  storm. 

My  husband  was  much  too  cautious  a  navigator,  and  far 
too  experienced  a  cruiser  in  those  latitudes,  to  neglect  so 
palpable  warnings  as  were  given  us  in  a  hundred  ways,  that 
to  the  inexperienced  would  have  been  unnoticed,  or  noticed 
unheeded ;  so  that  bv  the  time  we  reached  Point  Indio,  at 
daylight  on  the  morning  after  we  left  the  city,  the  bark 
was  under  close-reefed  top-sails,  all  her  light  spars  sent  down, 
the  gear  unrove,  every  thing  movable  on  deck  secured  with 
extra  fastenings,  and,  in  short,  every  precaution  that  nautical 
skill  or  prudence  could  dictate,  had  been  taken  to  secure  the 
Madonna  against  an  elemental  surprise. 


CHANCE -RESCUED.  53 


# 


It  was  well  the  precautions  were  taken ;  for  within  twenty 
minutes  after  tlie  captain  had  pronounced  every  thing  ship- 
shape, and  just  as  the  men  were  getting  their  breakfasts  at 
the  galley,  one  of  those  w^ild,  yelling  tornadoes  so  peculiar 
to  the  Eiver  Platte,  burst  upon  us  in  all  its  mad  wrath,  with- 
out one  moment's  warning,  and  like  the  fleet  courser  pre- 
pared for  the  race,  away  flew  the  swift-winged  craft,  fleet  as 
the  flight  of  the  startled  antelope. 

For  three  whole  days  and  nights  we  scud  before  the  yelling 
'pa?nj>e7v,  dashing  awaj^  with  all  sail,  save  our  close-reefed 
main-top-sail  and  fore-top-mast  stay-sail  close-furled ;  fairly 
hissing  on  through  the  flashing  brine- — not  toward  home, 
for  the  gale  was  a(:  W.  S.  lY.,  and  our  course  dead  before  it 
was  due  E.  X.  E. ;  four  points  further  to  the  eastvrard  than 
we  should  have  steered  in  fine  weather.  But  there  was  a 
direct  Providence  in  the  storm  that  was  hurrvinsc  us  on, 
right  out  into  the  very  heart  of  the  great  South  Atlantic. 

We  were  sitting  at  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day  after  the  storm  came  on,  when  we  were  suddenly  start- 
led by  the  cry  of  ''  Yv^reck,  ho !"  fro"m  the  second  mate,  who 
a  moment  afterward  put  his  head  down  the  companion-way 
and  said  there  was  a  w^reck  off  our  starboard  bow. 

Following  m^y  husband  on  deck,  we  observed  the  disabled 
vessel,  apparently  a  medium-sized  ship,  totally  dismasted, 
and  very  low  in  the  water,  about  three  miles  distant,  and 
some  two  points  off  our  starboard  bow. 

As  soon  as  lie  had  assured  himself  that  there  were  people 
on  the  wreck,  our  captain  called  all  hands  aft,  and  after 
changing  our  vessel's  course  so  as  to  head  for  the  wreck,  he 
inquired  of  the  chief  mate  if  he  would  volunteer  to  go  in  the 
.boat  and  try  to  save  the  suflerers. 

"  ]Si  ot  I,  sir,"  replied  the  ofiicer,  half  sulkily.  '•  You  might 
as  well  ask  me  to  jump  overboard  Avith  three  thirty-two 
pound  shot  strung  about  my  neck  for  beads.  JSTo,  no,  cap- 
tain ;  I  have  no  idea  of  committing  suicide,"  and  the  heart- 
less coward  walked  off  forward. 

"  I  will  go,  captain,"  said  a  brave,  noble-hearted  young 
passenger  named  George  Benner,  who,  after  a  residence  of 
six  years  in  Buenos  A^a-es,  was  going  home  to  ISTew  England 


54  C  H  A  N  C  E,-  R  E  S  C  U  E  D . 

Avith  a  fortune,  to  die  and  leave  it  to  strangers ;  for  his 
health  was  delicate,  and  people  said  'twas  consumption ;  but 
a  few  of  us  there  Avere  who  knew  that  it  was  not  j)hysical 
'  disease  that  was  killing  the  joung  merchant  whom  we  loved 
as  a  brother. 

There  was  a  story  known  to  a  few  about  his  love  and 
betrothal  to  a  beautiful,  bright-eyed  Spanish  maiden,  daugh- 
ter of  Buenos  Ayres'  merchant  king;  of  the  old  don's 
opposition,  and  of  his  sending  Dona  Isabelita  home  to  Spain, 
and  a  great  deal  more,  unimportant  to  the  reader ;  but  the 
event  thus  far  was,  that  George  was  going  home  to  die  of 
what  people  said  was  consumption ;  while  the  probability 
was,  that  Dona  Isabelita  would  ere  long  wed  some  super- 
annuated old  hidalgo,  and  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

"  I  will  go  in  the  boat,  captain,  if  but  a  single  one  of  these 
men  will  go  with  me,"  repeated  our  pale,  handsome  passen- 
ger, and  he  stepped  toward  the  quarterrboat. 

''  'No,  no,  Mr.  Benner,  you  shall  not  go  in  the  boat,  unless 
these  men  ail  refuse,  and  then  you  and  I  will  man  the  oars, 
while  my  wife  will  take  the  helm  ;  for,  by  Heaven !  I  will  not 
pass  yonder  wreck  without  doing  all  that  man  can  do  to  save 
the  miserable  wretches  upon  her  deck." 

Three  right  hearty  cheers  from  the  live  stout  fellow^s  com- 
posing the  crew,  headed  by  the  young  second  mate,  drowned 
the  last  words  of  my  husband's  speech,  and  told  in  most 
emphatic  language  that  the  coward  mate  was  the  only  craven 
spirit  upon  our  decks. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  Madonna  lay  hove  to,  a  few 
hundred  yards  to  leeward  of  the  ship,  and  then  for  a  whole 
long  half  hour,  my  heart  almost  stood  still,  as  I  watched  the 
superhuman  efforts  of  those  six  red-shirted  heroes ;  and  our- 
captain  standing  erect  there  bare-headed,  with  his  long  hair 
streaming  out  on  the  gale,  as  the  brave  fellows  sent  the  little 
craft  up  to  windward  by  inches,  gaining  every  foot  by  the 
outlay  of  all  their  united  strength. 

Oh,  how  my  heart  leaped  again  as  I  saw  the  successful 
boat  range  up  on  the  ship's  lee  cpiarter,  and  t  eard  the  almost 
exultino:  hurrahs  which  came  from  her  victorious  crew! 

A  few  moments  more,  and  the  captain  was  seen  on  the 


C  H  A  N  C  E  -  E  E  S  C  U  E  D  .  QO 


ship's  deck,  passing  the  exhausted  sufferers  down  into  his 
boat.  One  after  another,  to  the  number  of  eight,  Avere  safely 
deposited  in  the  little  craft,  and  then  back  toward  the  bark, 
like  an  arrow's  flight,  she  came  before  the  quick,  heaving 
sea,  and  screaming  gale. 

Passing  under  the  stern,  the  boat  ranged  up  to  the  bark's 
lee  o-ano-wav,  and  almost  before  you  could  count  ten,  the 
captain  was  passing  in  over  the  side  the  rescued  passengers. 

The  ladies  vrere  passed  up  first,  and  two  of  them  our 
young  friend  George  had  taken  from  the  captain  and  placed 
on  deck ;  when^  as  h«  extended  his  arms  to  receive  the  third 
one,  a  sweet,  angelic,  and  most  familiar  face  was  upturned 
toward  his.  "  George  I  dear  George !"  and  '*  Merciful  God! 
Isabelita  I"  were  the  two  quick-uttered  exclamations  of  the 
long-separated  and  chance-united  lovers,  as  George  Benner 
folded  to  his  heart  the  beautiful  Isabelita  Xoraza. 

After  another  desperate  struggle  v/ith  the  wind  and  waves, 
our  captain  and  his  six  noble  fellows  succeeded  in  rescuing 
the  other  seven  sufferers  ;  and  within  fifteen  minutes  after  the 
Madonna  squared  away  before  the  gale  again,  the  doomed 
wreck  went  down ;  so  that  another  hour's  delay  would  have 

been  fatal. 

We  learned  from  Dona  Isabelita,  that  having  escaped  from 
the  strict  guardianship  of  her  uncle  in  Spain,  she  found  her 
way  to  Gibraltar,  v\'here  she  embarked  in  the  English  ship 
which  had  just  foundered,  with  the  intention  of  returning  to 
Buenos  Ayres.  and  joining  her  lover  at  all  risks. 

They  had  been  dismasted  at  the  commencement  of  the 
gale  which  had  carried  us  so  far  out  of  our  course,  and  but 
for  our  timely  appearance,  and  my  husband's  daring  resolu- 
tion, thc)'  would  all  have  perished. 

By  the  time  we  reached  Boston,  sixty  days  after  the  inci- 
dent above  narrated,  there  was  not  a  heartier,  healthier- 
looking  man  in  the  bark  than  George  Benner;  and  by  the 
time  we  had  been  a  week  in  Boston,  there  was  not  a  happier 
man  in  the  world,  or  a  happier  woman  either,  than  iMrs. 
Isabelita  Benner,. 


! 


A    SEA    VOYAGE. 

BY    D.    S,    M. 

O,  I  have  climbed  the  mountain  pile 

Whose  towering  summits  reached  the  sky, 
And  wandered  many  a  weary  mile 

Through  the  vast  wilds  that  westward  lie; 
And  coursed  along  the  billowy  deep, 

Through  those  broad  inland  oceans,  all, 
And  erst  beheld  Niagara  sweep 

In  awful  grandeur  down  his  fall. 
Deep  in  that  dreadful  gulf  below,. 
While  o'er  him  hung  that  radiant  bow. 

But  I  have  seen — yes,  I  have  seen 

Far  richer  sights  than  all  of  these. 
That  broad  expanse,  th'  acknowledged  queen, 

The  mistress  of  the  briny  seas  ; 
She  soars  aloft  as  mountains  high, 

Or  sinks  in  one  vast  liquid  plain ; 
Above,  there's  nought  but  sun  and  sky, 

Below,  the  watery  world  amain. 
Her  voice  exceeds  Niagara's  roar, 
A  thousand  thousand  times,  or  more. 

Tha't  little  bark — though  small  it  be 

Beneath  our  feet — in  which  we  sail, 
Is  our  LIFE  BOAT — our  ALL  at  sea — 

Our  ALL  is  lost  if  she  but  fail ; 
With  her  we  climb  the  mountain's  height, 

Then  down  again  securely  glide. 
Swift  through  the  wave  she  speeds  her  flight, 

Her  motions  rapid  as  the  tide  ; 
There's  nought  so  grand,  or  so  sublime. 
As  this  upon  the  shores  of  time. 

Apart  from  all  the  world  below. 

Afar  from  home — remote  from  shore — 
We  upward  look,  and  seek  to  know 

What  arm  controls  the  ocean's  roar. 
We  ask  the  billows,  who  .'s  He, 

The  tempest,  lightning,  and  the  storm, 
That  lifts  aloft  the  raging  sea, 

Or  smooths  the  ocean's  angry  form  ? 
AVe  ask — and  oft  repeat  it  too — 
But  echo  only  answers — w^ho  ? 


REVOLUTIONARY    SKETCH. 

BY      MRS.      WILLIAMS, 

MaPwY  Sheeman,  a  poor  but  very  beautiful  girl,  and  from 
an  honest  and  respectable  family,  was  married,  when  about 
sixteen,  to  Captain  Oliver  Eead,  of  Newport,  about  1770, 
and  went  to  reside  at  a  small  liouse  on  the  hill  fronting  the 
beach,  near  the  windmills,  which,  with  the  house,  had  for- 
merly been  in  the  possession  of  Captain  Eead's  father. 
Here  they  lived  five  years  in  quiet,  until  the  breaking  out 
of  the  war.  It  is  known  that  the  squadron  under  the  com- 
mand of  Wallace,  was  lying  off  Newport  before  the  com- 
mencement of  hostilities,  and  immediately  commenced  har- 
assing the  inhabitants  of  the  island.  • 

The  residence  of  Mrs.  Eead  was  peculiarly  exposed,  on  a 
lonely  street  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  beach,  with  no  male 
in  her  family  but  an  aged  relative  of  her  husband,  Eosanna 
Ilicks,  another  heroine,  and  three  little  children,  besides  the 
widowed  mother  of  her  husband.  Captain  Eead,  who  was 
then  at  sea,  and  for  whom  his  wife  felt  the  greatest  anxiety, 
supposing  he  would  inevitably  be  captured  on  his  return,  for, 
as  he  was  expected  in  hourly,  with  a  valuable  cargo",  the 
enemy  were  on  the  watch  for  him.  Meantime,  favored  by 
the  treacherous  Tories,  frequent  atrocities  were  committed 
on  the  island,  commencing  with  robbing  barns  and  hen- 
roosts, and  ending  by  openly  insulting  their  owners  and 
plundering  their  houses,  whenever  chance  favored  them.  The 
friends  of  Mrs.  Eeid  strenuously  advised  her  removal  from 
such  an  exposed  situation,  advice  which  Mrs.  Eead,  being  a 
woman  of  singular  courage,  rejected  with  scorn,  saying, 
"She  was  prepared  to  defend  their  little  property,  and  she 
should  do  so  ;"  and  so  well  knc^  was  her  determined  spirit 
and  fearless  disposition,  that  among  all  the  petty  robberies 
in  the  outskirts  of  Kewport,  her  property  remained  safe.  ^ 

Expecting  an  early  descent  upon  the  island,  the  ship- 
owners of  i^ewport  tried  to  convey  intelligence  to  Captain 
Eead,  but  without  success,  to  land  the  cargo  at  another 


58  REVOLUTIONARr     SKETCH. 

place,  and  not  venture  into  I*Tewport.  However,  witli  an  in- 
tuitive perception  of  what  would  be  prudent,  wliicli  never 
eeemed  to  desert  tliis  remarkable  man,  lie  managed,  by  a 
series  of  maneuvers,  to  escape  the  squadron  of  Wallace, 
and  run  the  ship  up  Karraganset  Bay  to  Providence,  about 
the  time  that  Commodore  Whipple,  Captain  Ezek  Hopkins, 
and  John  Paul  Jones  performed  the  same  exploit.  Having 
discharged  liis  cargo,  and  linding  the  Americans  were  as- 
sembling at  Roxbur}^,  Captain  Read  got  discharged  from 
his  ship,  and  returned  to  IN'ewport  on  a  flying  visit  to  his 
family,  previous  to  enterhig  the  army.  The  burning  of 
Cannonticut,  directly  opposite  Newport,  and  the  atrocities 
at  Prudence  Island,  the  fires  of  which  had  been  distinctly 
seen,  he  supposed  might  have  alarmed  the  family,  and  he 
might  And  them  ready  for  a  removal ;  but  no  such  thing. 
Hary  Read  still  maintained  her  ground,  and,  enthusiastic  in 
her  patriotism,  hastened  her  husband  to  the  service  of  the 
distressed  Americans,  where  he  arrived  just  in  time  to  give 
liis  assistance  as  a  volunteer  in  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

At  this  time  families  were  continually  flocking  up  thfi 
river  to  Providence,  and  a  sister  of  Captain  Read,  becoming 
nmch  alarmed  for  his  family,  made  several  unsuccessful  at- 
tempts to  get  them  off  the  island,  as  W^allace  grew^  very  loth 
to  give  passports,  and  had  at  length  utterly  refused  to  sign 
any  more.  In  tnls  dilemma,  her  husband  absent,  and  hav- 
ing no  male  friend  to  send,  Rosanna  Hicks,  who  was  a 
coufein  of  Captain  Read's,  and  had  resided  many  years  in 
the  family,  offered  to  go  in  a  row-galley,  commanded  hj 
Captain  Eleazer  Hill,  of  Greenwich,  which,  at  great  risk. 
was  about  to  attempt  a  communication  with  the  island. 
Nothing  could  dissuade  her,  although  her  friends  endeavor- 
ed to  arouse  her  fears  by  prognosticating  "  they  would  all 
be  blown  to  the  bottom."  They  proceeded  to  Greenwich  to 
take  in  their  complement  of  men,  as,  after  touching  at  the 
island  in  the  night,  they  were  to  privately  pass  out  of  the 
harbor  and  put  to  sea.  They  liad  not  proceeded  many  miles 
from  Greenwich,  however,  ]>efore  a  vessel  of  superior  force 
liove  in  sight,  which  Ca])tain  Hill  pronounced  English,  and 
a  hasty  council  was  called  to  decide  on  what  to  do.     "  Eight 


KEVOLUTIOXAEY     SKETCH.  59 

her !  fight  her !"  was  the  cry  on  every  side,  and  the  decks 
were  immediately  cleared  for  action.  Hosanna  entreated 
the  captain  to  "let  her  do  something,"  and  fiually  she  was 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  companion-way,  to  hand  cartridges, 
etc.,  to  the  gunners. 

The  vessel  still  neared  them  with  the  English  flag  flying, 
and  was  about  to  receive  a  broadside,  when  she  hauled  down 
her  colors,  and  announced  herself  a  prize,  going  to  Provi- 
dence. The  galley  then  fired  a  salute,  and  the  prize-master, 
a  Mr.  Lancher,  who  w^as  a  relative  of  Rosanna,  was  much 
diverted  when  he  descried  Eosanna  standing  between  two 
guns,  clapping  her  hands,  and  joining  the  cheers  of  the  crew. 
Favored  by  the  increasing  darkness,  they  managed  to  reach 
the  island  at  the  place  of  assignation,  where,  landing  Ro- 
sanna,  and  taking  oflf  a  number  of  men,  they  got  out  of  the 
harbor  undiscovered,  while  the  fearless  woman  proceeded  to 
cross  the  island  alone  in  the  night,  to  get  to  the  beach ;  this 
she  accomplished  safely  by  daybreak,  and  the  rising  sun  saw 
her  an  inmate  of  their  dwelling.  Here  she  found  Captain 
Eead,  on  a  furlough,  come  to  remove  his  family ;  but  Mrs. 
Eead  would  not  abandon  the  house,  but  advised  the  removal 
of  the  old  lady  his  mother,  and  their  eldest  child,  a  daughter, 
and  insisted  upon  accomj^anying  them  to  see  them  sale  up. 
Captain  Eead  procured  a  j)as5port  to  carry  them  to  Taunton, 
for  a  feint,  for  "Wallace  would  permit  no  communication 
with  Providence.  In  a  small  oj)en  sail-boat,  with  only  one 
(the  captain)  to  manage,  these  fearless  women  embarked, 
Mrs.  Read,  Rosanna,  tlie  aged  grandmother,  and  one  child, 
for  a  voyage  of  thirty  miles,  through  rough  waters ;  and  go- 
ing round  Coarse  Harbor,  they  passed  one  of  the  English 
ships  of  war,  which  sto2:)ped  them  to  examine  their  ^^assport, 
saying,  ^'  If  they  had  been  going  to  Providence  he  would 
have  sunk  them." 

They  proceeded  to  a  rocky  shore,  called  Coddington  Cove, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  island,  where,  secreted  in  one  of  the 
caverns  worn  into  the  rock  by  ilie  action  of  the  tide,  they 
had  directed  two  American  oflicers,  who  were  trying  to  get 
away,  to  await  them ;  they  stopped  and  took  them  in,  and 
then  making  a  feint  for  Taunton,  for  some  little  distance,  sud- 


GO  REVOLUTIONAIIT     SKETCH. 

denlv  altered  their  course,  and  steered  for  Providence.  Tliev 
liad  not  proceeded  many  miles,  when  they  found  themselves 
chased  by  a  cutter.  Captain  Read  feared  all  was  lost,  as  he 
had  no  doubt  it  belonged  to  the  enemy,  and  saw  no  way  of 
escape  ;  but  his  courageous  helpmate  entreated  him  to  crowd 
all  sail,  while  she,  putting  the  officers  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  covered  them  with  the  cloaks,  and  shawls,  and  bag- 
gage they  had  with  them.  The  tide  was  against  them,  and 
their  bowsprit,  part  of  the  time,  under  water ;  they  were 
completely  drenched  by  the  spray,  and  had  once  or  twice 
came  near  upsetting  by  a  flaw  of  wind.  Captain  Eead  pro- 
tested he  would  proceed  no  longer  at  such  a  rate,  at  the 
manifest  danger  of  their  lives  ;  and,  to  the  regret  of  the  fear- 
less Rosanna  and  his  wife,  slackened  sail,  and  permitted  the 
cutter  to  come  up,  when  it  proved  to  belong  to  an  American 
vessel.  Tliere  w^as  much  merriment  about  concealing  the 
officers,  who  were  dragged  out  amid  the  shouts,  and  jokes, 
and  hearty  cheers  of  the  cutter.  They  arrived  safely  about 
eight  o'clock  that  evening,  and  after  an  hour  or  two  spent 
on  shore.  Captain  Read  and  wife  departed  for  IN'ewport, 
where  they  arrived  next  morning  and  found  all  safe. 

With  some  misgivings  about  the  safety  of  his  family.  Cap- 
tain Read  rejoined  the  army  next  day,  his  wife  refusing  to 
flee ;  for  well  did  she  suppose  that  the  property  of  such  a 
known  patriot  as  her  husband  would  not  be  safe.  She  was 
in  the  habit  of  frequently  reconnoitering  the  entrance  to  the 
harbor  wdth  a  spy-glass,  and  it  was  said  was  the  first  person 
who  saw  the  disjDatch  sent  to  demand  the  surrender  of  the 
town.  By  the  articles  of  capitulation,  the  enemy  were  not 
to  land  their  troops  in  the  harbor,  or  on  the  seaward  side  of 
the  island,  but  on  the  north  side,  at  a  place  called  "Brown's 
Shore ;"  and  Mrs.  Read,  to  the  surprise  of  her  neighbors, 
took  her  children  some  distance  from  home,  to  the  top  of 
Tamminy  Hill,  to  witness  the  debarkation.  Her  object,  it 
seems,  was  to  point  out  to  them  the  uniform  of  the  foes  of 
their  country,  and  to  impress  on  their  infant  minds  the  object 
of  their  unwelcome  visit — something  that  they  never  after- 
ward forgot. 

The  next  day  the  troops  entered  the  town,  and  the  desire 


REVOLUTIONARY     SKETCH.  61 

to  see  every  thing  new,  as  well  as  to  pillage,  soon  drove 
them  in  every  direction.  Mrs.  Read  soon  found  her  habita- 
tion beset  by  strolling  parties  of  English  and  Hessian  sol- 
diers, who,  thongh  they  dared  not  ofier  her  any  real  injury, 
would  often  call,  asking  for  a  glass  of  water,  and  tell  Mrs. 
Read  how  handsome  she  was,  much  to  her  annoyance ;  in 
particular,  a  German  officer,  whose  glances  had  the  honor 
of  frightening  one  whose  courage  had  been  hitherto  deemed 
invincible.  As  the  soldiers  were  all  beat  to  quarters  at  an 
early  hour,  no  fears  were  entertained  after  dark,  and  the 
family  reposed  at  that  season  in  perfect  security.  It  was 
therefore  without  any  apprehension  that  she  opened  the 
door  one  evening,  to  the  tap  of  what  she  supposed  was  some 
neighbor,  and  to  her  great  terror  discovered  the  German 
officer,  who,  without  any  ceremony,  walked  in,  and  took  a 
seat  beside  the  fire,  next  to  the  old  man,  who  had  fallen 
asleep.  Mrs.  Read  placed  herself  in  the  opposite  corner, 
making  herself  busy  with  the  fire,  while  she  politely  inquired 
his  business.  "Had  he  got  lost?  could  she  direct  him  the 
nearest  way  to  quarters  ?"  All  this  time  the  fellow  sat  with 
his  eyes  fastened  on  her,  without  uttering  a  word.  But  the 
time  had  sufficed  for  her  purpose ;  she  had  heated  the  jDoker 
red  hot,  and  springing  fiercely  at  him,  attemjDted  to  beat 
him  out  of  the  house.  He  caught  at  the  iron,  and  burned 
his  hand  badly.  While  in  the  contest,  he  naturally  retreat- 
ed toward  the  door,  which,  opening  on  the  outside,  gave 
■way  as  he  staggered  against  it,  and  she  succeeded  in  push- 
ing him  out,  and  fastening  the  door.  He  made  no  attempt 
to  foi\Q  an  entrance ;  had  he  done  so,  she  would  probably 
have  shot  him,  as  she  was  well  acquainted  with  the  use  of 
arms,  and  fearless  to  use  them.  However,  he  went  off, 
swearing  vengeance  as  hard  as  the  English  swore  in  Flan- 
ders. 

The  next  day,  several  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  place  waited 
on  the  general,  complaining  of  the  unofficer-like  conduct  of 
the  German,  and  soliciting  a  passport  to  convey  Mrs.  Read 
and  children  ofi'  the  island.  This  the  general  would  not 
grant,  saying,  "He  should  not  let  the  wife  of  such  a  noto- 
rious enemy  to  the  government  escajje  ;  besides,  he  would 

4 


62  KEVOLUTIONARY     SKETCH. 

keep  her  there  to  catch  her  husband."  He,  however,  agreed 
to  provide  for  her  safety  by  stationing  a  sentry  near  hei 
house.  But  Mrs.  Head,  whose  lieahh  began  to  fail,  now 
judged  it  best  to  remove,  and  sent  again  a  formal  request 
for  a  passport.  It  was  positively  refused.  When  once  con 
vinced  of  the  propriety  of  any  measure,  she  was  not  a  person 
to  give  it  up,  and  she  then  decided  to  apply  in  person,  ac* 
cepting  of  the  offer  of  a  gentleman  well  known  as  one  of  the 
most  influential  and  respectable  in  the  place,  to  drive  her  to 
the  general's  quarters. 

She  wisely  took  the  happiest  period  of  the  general's  life — • 
the  hour  succeeding  dinner — to  call  on  him.  Tlie  general 
and  his  suite  were  yet  at  their  wine  when  the  lady  was  an- 
nounced, and  they  doubtless  expected  some  sj^ort  in  admit- 
ting her ;  but  the  wassail  roar  was  hushed  at  her  entrance, 
and  they  involuntarily  rose  and  presented  her  a  chair,  which 
she  accepted,  and  modestly  stated  her  request  for  a  passport, 
(m  account  of  the  defenseless  state  of  her  family,  and  the 
lawlessness  of  the  times.  The  general  (Prescott)  repeated 
his  objection:  "He  should  keep  her  there  until  he  caught 
her  husband,"  and  retreated  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
"  That  you  will  not  do  ;  I  shall  take  care  he  does  not  come 
here  on  my  account,"  said  the  fearless  wife,  rising,  and 
walking  lip  to  the  general.  It  seems  as  though  we  now  be- 
held her.  We  have  many  reasons  to  remember  her,  one  of 
which  is,  she  was  our  maternal  grandmother ;  and  though 
the  stately  form  and  perfect  features  have  long  since  molder- 
ed  into  dust,  yet  is  every  lineament  deeply  engraven  on  the 
tablet  of  memory.  Her  figure  was  somewhat  above  the 
middling  height,  and  of  faultless  proportions ;  her  raven 
locks  shaded  a  forehead  of  dazzling  whiteness,  iinely  con- 
trasted by  the  beautiful  bloom  of  her  complexion.  Even  at 
the  age  of  forty-eight,  when  we  can  recollect  her,  her  beauty 
was  striking ;  she  had  a  remarkably  handsome  mouth,  and 
regular  teeth,  and  her  fine  black  eyes,  when  cast  down,  had 
an  expression  of  much  sweetness,  but  when  raised  in  anger, 
there  was  a  look  so  stern  as  to  awe  the  boldest.  There  was 
a  dignity  in  her  deportment  which  would  not  disgrace  arx 
empress,  and  we  have  no  doubt  her  request  had  more  the 


E  E  V  0  L  U  T  I  0  K  A  E  Y      S  K  E  T  C  H  .  63  | 

air  of  a  command  ;  but  she  obtained  the  passport,  the  gen-  1 

oral  observing,  "  If  yon  go  to  Providence  to  get  out  of  my 
way,  Mrs.  Read,  yon  will  lose  your  labor,  as  I  shall  be  there 
{•.Imost  as  soon  as  yon  are."     Memorable  words  ! 

He  did  not  then  expect  to  be  carried  there  a  prisoner,  in  I 

a  few  short  months,  instead  of  marching  at  the  head  of  a  j 

victorious  army.  Mrs.  R.  left  in  high  spirits,  but  they  w^ere 
soon  lowered  by  the  difficulty  of  getting  away ;  there  was  I 

no  family  coming ;  all  that  proposed  leaving,  had  left.    The  I 

general  had  grudgingly  bestowed  the  passport,  but  he  had 
provided  no  facility  for  her  conveyance,  and  none  could  be  i 

procured.     All  day  her  friends  v/ere  busy,  on  the  one  sue-  , 

eeeding  the  interview  with  the  general,  and  night  closed  in  ' 

without  a  ray  of  hope.  It  was  not  until  midnight  that  she 
retired  to  snatch  a  few  moments'  rest  with  her  sleeping 
babes,  and  with  a  depression  of  spirits  she  had  never  felt        .  1 

before,  when  suddenly  she  was  startled  by  a  rap  at  the  door ; '  ! 

it  was  repeated ;  and  on  demanding  who  vras  there,  the  w^ell-  j 

known  accents  of  Rosanna  Hicks  answered,  "It  is  I,  Mary,  i 

come  for  you ;"  and  in  a  moment  she  w-as  folded  in  the  arms 
of  that  faithful  and  courageous  w^oman,  who,  having  learned 
accidentally  of  her  perilous  situation,  had  again  ventured  in 
an  open  boat  with  a  com2:)any  of  strange  men  to  reach  the 
island,  where  it  was  bound,  to  carry  supplies  to  the  quarters  ; 

of  Colonel  Barton  {the  one  w^ho  captured  Prescott  a  few  ] 

months  after).     She  was  out  all  night,  and  arrived  just  as 
they  were  breakfasting  next  morning,  when  Rosanna  was 
compelled  to  breakfast  w^tli  them,  and,  receiving  every  kind- 
ness and  attention,  the  gentlemen  fitted  her  out  with  a  chaise  ] 
and  attendant.     Their  passport  extended  only  to  tlie  lines,  { 
and  they  could  only  obtain  one  through  ^Newport  on  condi-  ' 
tion  tlie  man  should  put  her  down  at  the  house  of  Mrs.                           i 
Read,  and  return  immediately.  General  Prescott  meaning, 
doubtless,  to  prevent  Mrs.  Read's  departure  by  sujh  a  ma-                           { 
neuver.     But  the  indefati«:able  Rosanna  w^as  not  to  be  baf- 
fled  :  she  procured  a  guide  and  conveyance  of  a  neigh])oring 
farmer  before  light ;  liaving  the  watchword  of  the  night,  she                            j 
passed  and  repassed  without  dit^culty.      The  journey  of                           i 
twelve  miles  to  Tiverton  Ferry  was  soon  accomplished ;  but                           | 


G-i  R  E  V  0  L  U  TI  O  N  A  ii  Y     SKETCH. 

alas!  the  boat  on  wliicli  they  relied  had  been  obliged  to  re- 
turn with  dispatches,  and  they  were  without  means  to  reach 
Providence  until  another  should  an'ive.  Tliey  took  shelter 
in  the  house  of  a  poor  widow,  named  Thankful  Irish,  avIio, 
with  her  three  children,  occuj^ied  one  room  of  a  miserable 
cottao'e  near  the  fort.  The  boat  did  not  return  under  tJn-ee 
days  ;  and  here  Oliver  Head,  second  son  and  fourth  child  of 
Captain  Read,  was  born  on  the  third  day  of  their  arrival ; 
and  here  the  heroic  matron,  worn  out  with  toil,  anxiety,  and 
excitement,  came  near  losing  her  life.  Although  nothing 
could  exceed  the  kind  attentions  of  the  neighboring  matrons, 
and  of  their  humble  hostess,  she  w^as  near  death's  door  Avhen 
her  husband,  at  the  summons  of  Colonel  Barton,  came  on  a 
furlough  to  remove  her.  They  procured  passage  on  a  small 
Greenw^ich  sloop,  and  into  the  confined  hole  of  a  cabin  Mrs. 
Read  was  conveyed  on  her  bed;  and  after  being  out  all 
night  in  a  storm,  arrived  at  Pawtucket  on  the  day  her  son 
was  a  fortnight  old.  Tliere  Vas  not  a  carriage  in  the  place, 
and  she  had  to  be  removed  to  the  house  of  Benoni  Lock- 
wood,  a  cousin  of  Captain  Read's,  in  an  ox  wagon.  Here 
she  remained  until  the  re-establishment  of  her  health,  her 
husband  being  obliged  to  return  to  the  army.  Rosanna  had 
been  sent  away  with  the  children  before  they  left  the  island ; 
she  was  out  all  day  and  night,  and  the  next  day  at  night 
they  arrived  at  Providence,  having  been  obliged  to  skulk,  to 
keep  clear  of  the  British  cruisers.  At  Providence,  Mrs. 
Read  once  more  embraced  her  children  and  mother-in-law ; 
and  here  they  resided  until  the  evacuation  of  Newport,  wdien 
Captain  Read,  having  quit  the  army  to  follow  the  sea,  w^ent 
out  in  command  of  a  privateer. 

Two  more  great  trials  awaited  her  ere  the  close  of  the  war, 
and  two  in  which  her  courage  w^as  severely  tried.  On  one 
occasion  the  alarm-guns  were  tired,  and  there  w\^s  great 
commotion  on  account  of  a  privateer  being  chased  into  the 
harbor  by  three  English  ships.  The  fight  w^as  seen  distinctly 
from  the  hill  and  the  different  eminences  at  the  south  part 
of  the  town.  Two  of  the  English  ships  had  become  crip- 
pled, and  the  third  was  maneuvering  to  intercept  the 
entrance  of  the  privateer,  which  was  soon  recognized  as  the 


R  E  V  0  L  U  T  I  0  X  A  E  Y     SKETCH.  65 

*' Rocliambeau."  Signals  were  made  for  men,  wliicli  was 
proof  there  had  been  g-reat  slanghter  on  board.  What  were 
the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Read,  who  knew  the  danger,  and  felt  the 
awfnl  responsibility  of  her  hnsband's  position,  we  know  not ; 
but  they  must  haye  been  keen.  It  was  some  hours  before 
the  whale-boats,  loaded  with  men,  were  fitted  out,  and  new 
assistance  began  to  pour  from  all  (piarters,  that  the  harbor 
was  aliye.  Bristol  heard  the  alarm  almost  as  soon  as  New- 
port, though  fifteen  miles  distant,  and  sent  several  hundred 
men :  the  Legislature  being  in  session  there,  dispatched 
them,  breaking  up  in  haste,  and  many  of  their  members  em- 
barking in  the  cause.  The  English  ship  was  obliged  to  shift 
her  ground,  when  Captain  Read  managed  to  tack  and  enter 
the  harbor,  when  the  Englishmen  made  all  sail  and  bore  off. 
I^ever  has  more  tumultuous  applause  greeted  the  arrival  of 
a  vessel  in  port ;  she  came  ofi:'  victorious,  indeed,  but  with 
great  slaughter,  and  there  was  much  mourning,  with  great 
rejoicing. 

The  visits  of  Captain  Read  at  his  home  were  very  short, 
often  returning  but  to  convoy  a  prize  into  port,  and  off 
again.  Several  of  the  owners  resided  in  Boston,  and  the 
valuable  property  often  brought  into  port,  was  usually  con- 
veyed there.  Mrs.  Read  had  been  often  warned  of  the  dan- 
ger of  treasure  in  her  house,  but  as  there  was  then  no  suit- 
able places  of  deposit,  it  was  frequently  left  in  her  care  for 
a  day  or  two.  On  one  occasion  a  very  valuable  box  of  spe- 
cie, mostly  in  gold,  was  left  in  her  care,  and  having  from 
some  circumstance  been  led  to  fear  an  attempt  at  robbery, 
she  took  unusual  precautions  in  fastening  her  house,  and 
having  left  a  lamp  on  the  table,  with  a  drawn  sword  beside 
it,  without  undressing,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed.  She  had 
just  fallen  asleep,  when  her  little  daughter,  who  slept  in  the 
room  above  her,  touched  her  shoulder,  saying,  "Mother, 
somebody  is  trying  to  get  in  the  back  window  ;  he  is  prying 
the  shutter  open."  Mrs.  Read  sprang  upon  her  feet,  seized 
the  lamp  in  one  hand  and  the  sword  in  the  other,  and  gliding 
down  the  stairs,  arrived  just  as  the  robber  had  thrust  his 
liead  and  shoulders  into  the  window.  She  stabbed  him,  but 
she  never  knew  where.     There  was  a  terrible  scampering, 


6G  REVOLUTIONARY      SKETCH. 

and  bcloro  slie  could  secure  tlie  window  and  alarm  tlie 
neighbors,  lie  was  oli",  although  the  blood  showed  the  sword 
Lad  done  execution. 

Peace  at  length  gave  rest  to  the  harassed  inhabitants  of 
^Newport,  and  Mary  Read  lived  many  years  to  enjoy  the 
prosperity  of  her  husband  ;  but  the  etfect  of  her  overtaxed 
energies  was  apparent  in  the  decay  of  mind  several  years 
before  her  death,  which  domestic  afflictions  hastened.  The 
death  of  three  of  her  children  preceded  her  own,  and  lastly, 
of  her  renowned  husband.  Captain  Oliver  Eead  died  at 
Point  Petre,  Guadaloupe,  in  1803.  He  was  then  in  com- 
mand of  a  fine  ship,  belonging  to  the  once  celebrated  firm 
of  Murray  &  Mumford,  of  Kew  York,  in  whose  employ  he 
had  sailed  many  years.  He  died  at  the  age  of  sixty.  Mary 
Pead  lived  to  about  the  year  1810,  and  Posanna,  for  many 
years  the  respected  widow  of  Thomas  Eddy,  of  Johnston, 
P.  L,  died  in  1827.  The  whole  life  of  Mary  Pead  was  one 
of  active  benevolence  ;  amid  trials  which  one  would  su]3pose 
must  have  engrossed  her  every  thought,  she  had  yet  time 
for  the  exercise  of  her  charities,  and  many  were  the  suffer- 
ing families  that  her  bounty  relieved.  Her  confiding  hus- 
band trusted  entirely  to  her  management  in  his  absence,  and 
never  found  fault  with  her  liberality  to  the  poor.  Her 
greatest  enjoyment,  indeed,  appeared  to  consist  in  acts  of 
beneficence.  A  large  field  opened  on  her  return  to  the  des- 
olated hearths  of  I^ewpOrt ;  the  number  of  impoverished 
families  was  terrible,  and  to  them  Mary  Pead  was  a  minis- 
tering angel.  Isor  was  she  brave  or  good  alone  ;  the  his- 
tory of  the  patriotic  women  of  JSTewport,  during  the  "  time 
that  tried  men's  souls,"  would  be  a  j^roud  one  if  it  could  all 
be  written.  (The  life  of  Captain  Oliver  Pead,  my  bravo 
and  lamented  grandfather,  has  once  been  published  in  a 
series  of  Pevolutionary  Tales,  and  more  recently  by  Henry 
Bull,  Esq.,  of  Newport,  in  his  History  of  Phode  Island.) 

Mary  Pead  left  no  descendants,  except  the  family  of  Gap- 
tain  Thomas  Wilcox,  of  Phode  Island,  and  of  Captain 
Alfred  Arnold,  who  married  her  two  eldest  daughters.  Of 
the  latter  family,  the  writer  of  this  sketch  is  the  only  sur- 
vivor. 


EVENTIDE. 

BY    HORACE    DRESSER,    ESQ.,    LL.D. 

I 

The  day's  bright  orb  but  just  in  sight  remains 

Above  the  hills  that  seem  to  meet  and  prop  ' 

The  clear  and  dazzling  Occidental  skies.  ■ 

The  trees  and  towering  spires  that  glitter  in  ' 

The  sun's  last  parting  rays  now  cast  their  shades 

At  greatest  length.     A  beam  yet  lingers  here,  I 

And  shines  upon  the  ceiling  of  my  room —  j 

An  emanation  from  the  setting  sun,  ] 

Now  bearing  on  his  light  to  other  lands; 

This  moment  he  has  disappeared  and  gone  ! 

Those  cheering  beams  that  lightly  played  and  shone 

Across  the  hillock's  gently  sloping  side, 

And  run  in  zigzag  courses  o'er  the  snow. 

Bright  gleaming  with  the  clearest,  purest  white —  ' 

Have  fled,  and  dusky  shades  their  places  take. 

The  vale  that  winds  along  the  wood}-  ridge,  \ 

That  intercepts  the  closing  liglit  of  day,  ] 

Puts  on  the  darksome  cast  of  coming  night —  i 

******  I 

The  woodlands,  fields,  and  all  are  now  obscured —  ' 

Umbrageous  Night  involves  the  whole  in  dark,  j 

And  ends  the  tiresome  labor  of  the  day  !  ! 

Seeks  man  a  time  for  calling  up  his  thoughts —  J 

A  time  for  self-abstraction  from  the  world  ? 

Such  time  he  finds  in  evening's  silent  hours,  ; 

When  noisy  tumults  of  the  day  have  ceased,  j 

And  stillness  seems  to  hallow  every  thought, 

And  elevate  the  soul  above  the  earth. 

With  peaceful  minds  its  calmness  well  accords,  J 

And  gives  to  them  a  turn  to  ruminate 

On  life  thick  set  with  trouble,  cares,  and  pains.  , 

Asks  he  a  time  to  view  the  twinkling  stars,  ; 

And  wisdom  learn  from  those  far  distant  spheres,  j 

That  bright  illume  the  welkin's  spacious  bounds  ? 

The  tranquil  evening  hours  present  this  time. 

Let  him  now  cast  his  eyes  around  on  heaven, 

And  watch  the  starry  hosts  that  sparkle  there —  i 

A  latent  awe  he  feels  his  soul  pervade, 

And  owns  that  chance  could  ne'er  direct  their  course. 


68  GEOKGE     SINCLAIR;     OK, 

At  this  calm  hour  his  impotence  he  learns, 

And  cries  as  he  of  olden  time  once  cried, 

Lord,  what  is  man  that  thou  dost  visit  him? 

How  dull  and  undevout  must  be  the  man. 

Who  learns  not  that  there  is  a  Great  First  Cause  ! 


GEORGE  SINCLAIR;  OR,   THE  STUDENT'S  NOBLE  RESOLVE. 

BY    MRS.    J.    H.    HANAFORD. 

*'  Father,  George  has  arrived,"  said  a  young  girl  in  a 
subdued  tone,  to  a  noble-looking  elderly  gentleman,  who 
opened  the  chamber  door  at  which  she  had  lightly  knocked, 
"  and  he  is  now  in  the  parlor,  waiting  anxiously  to  be  ad- 
mitted." 

'^  I  will  go  to  him  immediately,"  replied  her  father,  in  the 
same  low  tone,  "  and  he  can  return  with  me.  You  may  re- 
main, Sarah,  but  be  careful  not  to  disturb  her  slumbers." 

Tlie  daughter  stepped  to  the  bedside,  and  gazed  upon  the 
Bleeping  one.  "Mother,  dear  mother,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  looked  upon  the  beloved  features  of  the  sick  one,  who 
bore  that  relation  to  her,  and  her  tears  fell  fast  as  she 
thoudit  of  what  would  be  her  brother's  emotions  on  behold- 
ing  her  whom  he  left  in  health  and  strength,  so  changed. 

The  door  opened,  and  her  father  entered,  with  the  young 
man  whom  she  had  left  in  the  parlor.  They  approached  the 
bedside,  and  the  trio  stood  silently  gazing  on  the  sleeping 
mother.  The  frame  of  the  young  man  shook  convulsively, 
and  the  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks,  while  it  was  with 
violent  effort  that  he  refrained  from  sobbing  audibly,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  pale,  tliin  features  of  his  beloved  mother, 
and  remembered  how  well  she  was  when  he  was  with  her  in 
the  recent  vacation.  He  had  hastened  from  college  to  his 
home,  immediatelv  on  receivinc:  intelligence  of  her  sickness, 
fearing,  all  the  way,  that  he  should  not  arrive  in  time  to  re- 
ceive her  last  advice. 

In  a  few  moments  after  his  entrance,  the  mother  moved, 
and  with  a  low  moan  awoke.  As  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
saw  her  husband  and   daughter  (for  George  had  stepped 


THE  STUDENT S  NOBLE  RESOLVE.         69 

aside,  fearing  the  eiFect  of  a  surprise  in  her  present  weak- 
ness)' she  beckoned  to  Sarah,  and,  in  a  feeble  voice,  asked 
if  George  had  arrived. 

''  He  is  here,  mother,"  said  Sarah,  "  will  you  see  him 
now  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  thank  God,  my  son  has  come  !" 

George  approached,  and  the  eye  of  the  mother  liglited 
up,  as  he  bent  over  her  couch  to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her 
now  flushed  cheek,  though  his  tears  fell  fast  upon  her  pil- 
low. 

"Weep  not,  dear  George,  weep  nut,  my  son;  do  not  re- 
pine at  God's  wdll.  Remember  '  whom  the  Lord  loveth  He 
chasteneth,'  "  said  the  mother. 

George  sat  down  by  her  bedside,  and  in  a  low  tone  con- 
versed with  her,  now  and  then  weeping,  while  again  the 
eyes  of  both  ^would  brighten,  as  they  spoke  of  the  better 
land,  where  there  is  no  sorrow,  nor  sigliing,  nor  any  pain. 
Soon  the  physician  entered,  and  as  he  prohibited  conversa- 
tion for  the  rest  of  the  night,  which  was  fast  approaching, 
George  retired  to  his  chamber,  fatigued  both  in  body  and 
mind,  by  his  long  journey,  and  his  deep  anxiety. 

The  morning  again  dawned,  and  the  mother  still  continued 
to  grow  worse,  till,  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after 
George's  arrival,  she  revived,  and  hopes  were  once  more 
entertained  of  her  recovery.  As  George  had  been  by  her 
side  almost  constantly  for  the  preceding  day  and  night,  it 
was  thought  best  that  he  should  retire  to  his  chamber  and 
endeavor  to  obtain  some  repose,  which  he  did,  having  re- 
ceived from  his  father  a  promise  that  he  should  be  imme- 
diately called  if  his  mother  should  become  worse. 

He  slept  for  several  hours,  and  busy  fancy  pictured  to 
him  in  dreams,  his  early  days,  and  again  he  listened  to  his 
kind  mother's  voice  as  she  was  accustomed  to  speak  to  him 
of  heaven  and  the  holy  angels  ;  again  he  knelt  by  her  side 
to  offer  up  his  evening  prayer,  and  anon  heard  her  sweet 
voice  singing  the  familiar  hymn  with  which  she  often  lulled 
him  to  sleep.  Often  during  ihe  time  he  had  been  at  college 
had  he  thought  of  these  things,  and  longed  to  be  with  the 
mother  who  was  thus  associated  with  all  the  purest  enjoy- 


70  GEORGE  Sinclair;   OR 


) 


inents  of  liis  cliildliood,  but  never  had  tliey  been  so  vividl} 
presented  to  his  mind  as  on  this  occasion. 

Suddenly  he  awoke,  for  the  light  of  a  lamp  held  by  his 
father  shone  upon  him,  and  he  inquired  anxiously  after  her 
Avho  had  been  the  companion  of  his  sleeping  moments. 

"She  is  worse,  dear  George;  she  is  dying ^  come,"  said 
his  father.  George  arose  instantly,  and  was  soon  in  his 
mother's  chamber. 

By  the  side  of  the  bed  stood  Sarah,  the  nurse,  and  Mr.  Sin- 
clair, the  father,  and  soon  after  his  entrance,  the  physician 
arrived,  and  from  his  manner,  and  the  few  words  he  uttei-ed, 
they  all  knew  that  their  loved  one  was  soon  to  depart. 
When  George  entered,  she  w^as  conversing  with  Sarah,  and 
in  a  calm,  though  feeble  voice,  she  bade  her  be  of  good 
cheer,  for  they  should  meet  again.  And  then  she  turned  to 
George. 

"  My  son,  I  am  about  to  leave  you,"  said  she,  while  the 
tears  fell  fast  from  her  children's  eyes ;  "  but  ere  I  go,  I 
wish  to  impress  a  last  injunction  upon  you,  and  I  Vvdsh  you 
to  obey  it  as  your  dying  mother's  request.  I  wish  you  to 
live  so  as  to  glorify  God  on  earthy  and  meet  me^  at  last,  in 
heanienP 

She  ceased,  for  her  extreme  weakness  prevented  her  from 
speaking  long  at  a  time,  and  George  leaned  over  the  bed, 
and  received  her  last  kiss.  The  clergyman  then  entered, 
and  after  a  few  words,  in  a  low  tone,  to  her  husband,  she 
requested  the  clergyman  to  pray,  and  clasj^ing  her  attenu- 
ated hands  upon  her  breast,  she  raised  her  eyes  heavenward, 
while  all  in  the  room  knelt,  and  amid  the  solemn  silence  of 
the  chamber  of  death,  arose  the  clear,  calm  voice  of  the 
minister  to  the  Most  High.  He  prayed  for  all  who  were 
there  assembled,  and  for  her  who  was  so  soon  to  cross  the 
Jordan  stream  of  death,  and  earnestly  asked  that  tliey  might 
all  at  last  meet  in  that  hap23ier  land,  where 

•'  Sickness  and  sorrow,  pain  and  death. 
Are  felt  and  feared  no  more." 

As  the  prayer  closed,  the  mother  responded  "Amen,"  and 
as  the  rest  arose  from  their  kneeling  posture,  they  looked  to- 


'o        •WrvTJTTTi        •C>-t7<C/-vT-rrx:i  'T' 


THE  STUDENT  S  NOBLE  RESOLVE.        71 

ward  jber.  There  she  lay  with  a  cahn,  heavenlj  smile,  gaz- 
ing upward,  with  her  hands  still  clasped.  But  so  perfectly 
motionless  was  she,  that  after  a  few  seconds  the  heart-rend- 
ing truth  burst  upon  their  minds,  that  she  had  made  her  last 
res2:)onse  to  prayer  on  earth,  and  was  at  rest  forever. 

■X-  •«•  *  ■}{•  -H-  * 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  summer's  day,  and  nearly  a  yeai 
from  the  time  of  his  mother's  death,  that  George  Sinclair 
sat  at  an  open  window  of  his  apartment  in  the  college  at 
which  he  was  a  student.  The  prospect  before  him,  as  he 
gazed  from  the  casement,  was  "gloriously  beautiful."  Hills 
and  dales,  covered  with  verdure,  a  calm,  placid  lake,  in 
which  the  neighboring  heights  were  mirrored,  and  in  the 
far-ojff  horizon  the  blue,  boundless,  and  fathomless  ocean — 
all  these  were  spread  before  him,  and  over  the  whole  pros- 
pect, the  unclouded  sun  shed  a  flood  of  golden  radiance. 
But  his  thoughts  were  far  from  the  scene  before  him.  He 
held  a  miniature  of  his  departed  mother  in  his  hand,  and, 
as  he  gazed  upon  it,  he  dwelt  in  memory  upon  the  closing 
moments  of  her  existence  upon  earth.  And  then  rushed 
into  his  mind,  as  it  oftentimes  had  before,  her  last,  solemn 
injunction. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,"  he  murmured,  ''  thy  wish  shall  be 
obeyed  ;  thy  son  Vv411  glorify  his  God  !  And  now  how  shall 
it  be  accomplished,"  continued  he  ;  "but  a  little  while,  and 
I  shall  leave  these  college  walls,  and  choose  a  path  in  which 
to  walk  and  labor  through  life ;  what  shall  it  be  f 

Then  gazing  from  the  window  upon  the  gorgeous  hues  of 
the  sunset  sky,  he  mused  upon  the  heavenly  world  which 
they  brought  to  his  mind.  He  thought  of  the  brighter,  bet- 
ter land  ;  of  its  rest  for  the  weary,  and  of  the  Christianas 
hope  of  obtaining  that  rest.  He  thought  also  of  the  good- 
ness of  God  displayed  in  all  His  dealings  with  mankind, 
and  he  longed  that  all  sliould  love  Him.  Then  came  the 
thought  of  the  praise  which  would  be  offered  to  God  if  all 
did  love  Him. 

"  Ah !"  said  he,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  paced  the 
room  with  hasty  steps,  in  the  agitation  of  the  moment,  as 
thronging  thoughts  and  countless  associations  rushed  upon 


72  GEOKGE     SINCLAIR;     OK, 

his  mind,  ''  I  will  teacli  men  to  love  Ilim ;  then  ^^vili  tlioy 
praise  Jliui,  and  thus  through  my  instrumentality  will  God 
be  glorified." 

Then  he  thouglit  of  liis  native  land,  and  remembered 
how  favored  she  was  with  gospel  privileges,  and  he  almost 
resolved  to  go  where  the  nations  were  yet  in  moral  darkness, 
as  a  teacher  of  the  blessed  gospel.  He  had  often  thought  of 
becoming  a  minister,  and  had  almost  resolved  to  be  such, 
and  he  had  as  often  read  of  the  devoted  and  self-sacriiicing 
servants  of  God,  who  had  gone  far  from  home  and  native 
land,  for  Christ  and  His  kingdom^s  sake,  and  had  admired 
and  esteemed  their  exalted  characters.  But  until  this  night, 
of  which  I  now^  write,  he  had  never  thought  of  following 
their  example  himself. 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  and  took  from  the  table  a  small 
volume  of  poems  by  Mrs.  Sigourney.  It  was  the  gift  of  his 
sister  to  him  shortly  after  their  mother's  death,  and  had 
been  one  of  that  beloved  mother's  favorites.  Instinctively 
he  turned  its  pages,  and  pausing  at  one  of  the  poems,  enti- 
tled, "  Foreign  Missions,"  he  read  it  aloud.  The  first  verse 
was  as  follows : 

"  Up  at  the  gospel's  glorious  call ! 

Country  and  kindred,  -what  are  they  ? 
Eend  from  thy  heart  these  charmers  all ; 
Christ  needs  thy  service — hence  away  !" 

This  hynni  seemed  to  make  a  peculiar  impression  upon 
his  mind.  He  remembered,  as  he  read  it,  an  evening  long 
ago  spent  by  his  father's  fireside,  wlien  his  beloved  mother 
had  spoken  in  terms  of  enthusiastic  commendation  of  the 
devoted  missionary,  Henry  Martyn,  portions  of  whose 
"  Life"  his  fiither  had  just  been  reading  aloud,  and  she  had 
then  reached  into  George's  hand  this  same  volume  which  he 
now  held,  with  a  request  that  he  would  read  aloud  the  mis- 
sionary poems,  and  among  them  he  had  read  this  very 
one. 

He  knelt,  now,  in  the  secrecy  of  his  chamber,  and  ear- 
nestly prayed  for  Divine  guidance  and  direction.  He  had 
long  been  a  professor  of  Christ's  holy  religion,  and  had  en< 
deavored  to  follow  closely  the  steps  of  his  most  holy  Master ; 


THE     STUDEXt's     NOBLE     RESOLVE.  73 

tlierefore  lie  knew  from  wlience  to  seek  direction  and 
guidance  through  the  labyrinth  of  life.  As  he  arose  from 
his  knees,  he  took  np  his  little  Bible,  but  a  call  to  college 
duties  interrupted  him,  and  when  he  returned  again  to  his 
chamber  it  was  late,  and  for  that  night  he  dismissed  the 
subject,  determined  to  view  it  in  every  possible  light,  and 
act  in  accordance  with  his  conviction  of  duty  after  mature 
deliberation. 

For  a  few  davs  he  was  more  thouo-litful  and  serious  than 
was  usual,  until  having  in  his  own  judgment  sufficiently 
viewed  the  subject,  he  solemnly  devoted  himself  in  prayer 
to  God  as  a  missionary,  if  the  way  was  opened  for  him  to 
depart;  to  become  such,  he  knew  that  he  must  bid  adieu 
to  his  native  land,  to  ease,  and  comfort,  and  emolument,  to 
his  beloved  companions,  and,  above  all,  to  his  father  and 
sister ;  and  instead  of  enjoying  all  these,  must  spend  a  life 
in  toil,  and  perhaps  suffering ;  but  he  also  knew  that  Christ 
had  promised  that  those  who  forsook  all  for  His  kingdom's 
sake,  should  inherit  eternal  life,  and  for  the  glory  of  his  Sa- 
viour he  was  willing  to  do  all  this ;  and  hence  the  student's 
noble  resolve. 

Years  rolled  away,  and  George — now  the  Eev.  Mr.  Sin- 
clair— was  in  a  foreiom  land.  He  had  communicated  his 
resolution  to  his  only  surviving  j^arent,  and  to  his  sister, 
shortly  after  his  decision,  and  they,  with  the  spirit  of  true- 
hearted  Christians,  bade  him  "  Go,  in  Jesus'  name."  Though 
the  ties  which  united  them  to  each  other  were  most  endear- 
ing, yet  they  were  rejoiced  to  sunder  them  for  the  sake  of 
advancing  the  triumph  of  their  Redeemer. 

George  pursued  his  studies,  was  ordained,  and  in  the 
morning  of  life  bade  an  eternal  farewell  to  his  childhood's 
home,  and  in  his  Master's  strength  went  forth  upon  the 
pathless  deep.  He  strove  to  labor  on  the  voyage  for  Christ, 
and  often,  wliile  the  moon  shone  bright  upon  them,  and  all 
around  was  one  waste  sheet  of  waters,  he  would  pace  the 
deck  with  some  one  of  tliose  who  composed  the  watch,  and 
speak  to  him  of  the  Almiglity  One,  who  created  the  moon 
and  the  stars,  and  who  "holds  the  waters  in  the  hollow  of 
His  hand ;"  and  as  he  pointed  to  the  foir  Southern  Cross, 


74  GEORQE  sinclaijr;  ok, 

tliat  constellation  so  Leautiful  to  a  Christian's  eye,  lie  would 

exhort  him  to 

"  Fly  to  the  shelter  of  Christ's  cross, 
And  liml  salvation  there." 

By  day  and  by  night  ho  strove  with  all  the  means  in  his 
power  to  direct  "  the  sons  of  the  ocean  to  the  sailor's  God," 
and  he  labored  not  in  vain.  Tliere  were  some  among  those 
who  heard  him  who,  in  after  years,  blessed  him  as  the  in- 
strument, under  God,  of  leading  them  to  become  the  dis- 
ciples of  Christ.  And  when  he  at  last  arrived  at  the  place 
which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  his  missionary  labors,  there 
were  many  of  those  with  whom  he  had  sailed  who  parted 
from  him  with  tears  and  unfeigned  regret,  yet  glorifying 
God  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  labor  among  them, 
though  but  for  a  season. 

Consecrating  all  his  powers,  aifections,  and  desires  unto 
the  service  of  his  Redeemer,  Mr.  Sinclair  labored  faithfully 
among  those  with  whom  his  lot  w^as  now  cast. 

"  He  laborM  faithfully, 
And  not  in  yain ;  for  those  for  whom  he  toil'd, 
Had  learn'd  to  love  him,  and  far  more,  to  love 
The  God  of  whom  he  taught  them;  and  he  saw 
An  answer  to  his  pray'rs,  a  recompense 
For  all  his  toils." 

And  w^hen  he  had  for  several  years  toiled,  and  suffered, 
and  had  taught  others  to  glorify  his  God,  Mr.  Sinclair  was 
called  to  his  eternal  reward.  He  died  as  a  Christian  soldier 
should,  with  the  trophies  of  his  victory,  through  Christ,  over 
the  powers  of  evil  in  enslaving  souls,  all  thick  and  glorious 
around  him.  He  died  as  a  Christian  minister  should,  in  the 
midst  of  his  loving  flock,  and  resigning  his  charge  of  under- 
shepherd,  he  left  them  to  the  guidance  of  the  great  and  good 
Shepherd.  He  died  as  a  Christian  missionary  should,  with 
young  converts  around  him,  praising  God  that  such  a  noblo 
teacher  had  been  sent  by  Him  to  their  benighted  land.  He 
died  as  a  Christian,  ''in  the  comfort  of  a  reasonable,  re- 
ligious, and  holy  hope ;  in  favor  with  God,  and  in  perfect 
charity  with  all  the  world." 

And  thus,  in  life  and  death,  he  o^lorified  his  own,  his 


THE  STUDENT  S  XOBLE  RESOLVE.       7u 

mothers  God.  And  think  you,  Christian  reader,  wlien  on 
the  bed  of  death,  and  on  the  verge  of  the  spirit-workl,  he 
recrretted  havins;  devoted  himself  as  a  missionary  to  God  ? 
And  when,  ascending  from  earth  and  earthly  cares  and 
scenes,  his  disembodied  spirit  roved  in  the  fair  fields  of 
Paradise,  think  yon  he  regretted  the  student's  noble  re- 
solve ? 

Oh,  no!  Tliere  is  a  iov  in  the  knowledge  that  we  have 
performed  our  whole  duty,  so  far  as  human  weakness  irould 
allow,  which  more  than  compensates  for  all  the  toil  and 
suiiering  which  may  fall  to  our  lot  while  seeking  tlie  accom- 
plishment of  our  divine  Master's  will.  Thorns  and  briers 
we  must  expect  to  find  in  all  our  earthly  pilgrimage  ;  but 
there  are  sweet,  fragrant  roses,  too,  which  bloom  as  a  reflec- 
tion of  God's  own  smile,  to  cheer  and  encourage  us  ;  and 
oh  !  at  the  end  of  the  pilgrim  course  tliere  is  the  blessed 
land  of  rest ! 

Tlie  knowledge  that  we  have  been  the  instrument  of  lead- 
ing even  one  soul  to  Jesus,  and  thus  tuning  one  more  hai^ 
to  our  Eedeemer's  praise,  is  as  a  spring  in  the  desert,  or  a 
flower  by  the  wayside,  making  glad  our  hearts  as  we  toil  on 
in  the  upward,  heavenward  way. 

God  help  each  laborer  in  His  vast  vineyard  to  be  faithful, 
and  so  toil  with  pen,  or  voice,  or  hand,  that  by  His  bless- 
ing upon  the  mighty  influence  they  exert,  our  earth  may 
become  again  an  Eden  of  loveliness  and  purity,  and  all 
mankind  shall  shout,  "  Glory  to  God !" 


ISToTmxG  flatters  our  pride  more  than  the  confidence  of 
the  great,  because  we  esteem  it  the  eftect  of  our  merit ;  not 
reflecting  that  it  proceeds  most  frequently  from  their  own 
inability  to  keep  a  secret.  So  that  confidence  is  sometimes 
a  relief  to  the  mind,  by  throwing  off  the  oppressive  load  of 
secresy. 

Our  pride  is  often  increased  by  what  we  retrench  from 
our  other  faults. 


A  LOCK  OF  HAIB. 

BY    S.    C.    R. 

A  LENGTHENED  cui'l  of  aubum  hair, 

How  benutifiil  it  seems  ! 
Each  slender  line  with  radiance  rare. 

Amid  tlie  locket  gleams. 
"^It  glows  with  all  the  gloss  as  when 

It  circled  o'er  her  head, 
And  pure  aflfection's  tearful  ken 

Has  marked  each  glossy  thread. 

Bright  lock  of  hair,  how  eloquent 

Of  transports  that  have  fled  ; 
Of  anguished  throes  the  breast  that  rent, 

Around  a  death-marked  bed. 
Thou  wail'st  a  plaintive  tone,  and  low, 

That  starts  a  burning  tear; 
Thou  bringest  back  the  groan,  the  throe, 

The  maddening  sable  bier. 

Bright  curl  of  hair,  plucked  from  the  tomb. 

Its  darkness  and  decay, 
Thou  lightest  up  the  coffin's  gloom 

With  a  memorial  ray. 
Up,  thro'  the  vista  of  long  years, 

Thou  bear'st  a  fragrant  breath, 
And  tellest  of  past  trembling  fears 

For  the  advent  of  death. 

Thy  kindred  locks  are  mouldering  now. 

Thou  lovely  auburn  tress  ; 
All  frounced,  they  lie  on  thy  cold  brow. 

Deep  in  the  grave's  recess. 
A  sacred  relic  kept,  thou  art, 

Of  her  from  earth  now  gone; 
I'll  cherish  thee,  remaining  part 

Of  a  loved,  viewless  one. 


Merit  in   appearance   is   oftener    rewarded   than   merit 
tself. 


EICHAED,     C(EUR     DE     LION.  81 


EICHARD,  CCETJE  DE  LION,  AND  BERENGAEIA,  PEINCESS  OF  NAVAEEE. 

BY    THE     REV.    ISAAC    M.    SHERMAK-,  D.D. 


Many  as  have  been  the  tales  of  wild  romance,  founded 
on  the  chivalrous  adventures  of  the  Crusaders,  it  is  to  be 
doubted  whether  anv  inventions  of  the  fancy  can  surpass 
the  naked  and  truthful  history  of  those  times,  and  of  the 
wild  fanaticism  which  for  nearly  two  centuries  drained  all 
Europe  of  countless  inhabitants  and  incalculable  treasures. 
Did  not  the  history  of  our  own  times  show  the  proneness  of 
tlie  human  mind  to  run  after  the  wildest  delusions,  we 
should  scarcely  credit  tlie  old  historians  in  their  accounts  of 
the  efiects  produced  by  the  rude  but  earnest  eloquence  of 
Peter  the  Hermit,  who  had  himself  been  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  Holy  Land,  and  subjected  to  the  brutal  insolence  of  the 
Moslem  Turks,  then  recent  conquerors  of  Palestine.  Flush- 
ed with  many  victories,  insolent  and  cruel,  they  made  the 
pilgrims  feel  without  mercy  the  difference  between  their 
rule  and  the  former  Saracenic  masters  of  Judea.  Burning 
with  resentment,  and  meeting  the  full  concurrence  of  Urban 
n.,  Pontiff  of  Pome,  Peter  traveled  through  Europe,  pro- 
claiming the  shame  of  all  Christendom,  in  allowing  the 
Holy  Sepulcher  to  be  in  possession  of  infidels.  In  a  be- 
nighted age,  when  the  benign  doctrines  of  iJhe  Prince  of 
Peace  were  little  understood  or  practiced,  it  is  not  strange 
that  the  wildest  commotion  followed  eve^-ywhere  in  his  foot- 
steps. Of  this  the  histories  of  the  eleventh  century  bear 
am^^le  testimony. 

Guibert,  of  I^ogent,  an  eye-w^'cness  of  these  scenes,  thus 
writes:  "A  gi-eat  rumor  ppread  through  the  whole  of 
France,  and  as  fame  broug^it  the  news  of  the  orders  of  the 
pontiff  to  any  one,  he  we^^t  instantly  to  solicit  his  neighbors 
and  his  relations  to  engage  with  him  in  '  the  way  of  God,^ 
60  they  designated  ths  purposed  expedition.  The  Coimts  of 
Palestine  were  already  full  of  the  desire  to  undertake  the 
jom*ney,  and  all  the  knights  of  inferior  order  felt  the  same 

5 


li  I  CHARD,     CCEtJE    DE    LION. 

zeal.  Tlic  poor  themselves  soon  caught  the  flame?  do  ar- 
dently, that  no  one  paused  to  think  of  the  smallness  oi  hia 
"svealth,  and  to  consider  whether  he  ought  to  yield  his  house, 
and  his  fields,  and  his  vines ;  but  each  set  about  selling  his 
property  at  as  low  a  price  as  if  he  was  held  in  some  hor- 
rible captivity  and  sought  to  j^ay  his  ransom  without  loss  of 
time."  ''In  the  mean  time,  those  who  had  not  determined 
on  the  journey  joked  and  laughed  with  those  who  had,  and 
who  were  thus  selling  their  goods  for  whatever  they  could 
get,  and  prophesied  that  the  voyage  would  be  miserable, 
and  their  return  worse.  Such  was  ever  the  language  of  one 
day ;  but  the  next — suddenly  seized  with  a  desire  to  share 
-with  the  rest — those  who  had  been  the  most  forward  to  mock, 
abandoned  every  thing  for  a  few^  crowns,  and  set  out  with 
those  they  had  laughed  at  the  day  before.  Y/ho  shall  tell 
the  children  and  the  infirm,  that,  animated  with  the  same 
spirit,  hastened  to  the  war  ? 

"  "Who  shall  count  the  old  men  and  the  young  maidens 
who  hasted  to  the  fight  ?  not  with  the  hope  of  aiding,  but  for 
the  crown  of  martyrdom  to  be  won  amid  the  swords  of  the 
infidels.  '  You  warriors,'  they  cried,  '  you  shall  vanquish 
by  the  spear  and  brand ;  but  let  us  at  least  conquer  Christ 
by  our  suff"erings.'  At  the  same  time  one  might  see  a  thou- 
sand things  springing  from  the  same  spirit,  which  were  both 
laughable  and  astonishing :  the  poor  shoeing  their  oxen  as 
we  shoe  horses,  and  harnessing  them  to  two- wheeled  carts, 
in  which  they  placed  their  scanty  provisions  and  their 
young  children,  and  proceeded  onward,  while  the  babes  at 
each  town  or  castle  vliey  saw,  demanded  eagerly  whether 
that  was  Jerusalem." 

Among  the  thousands  of  adventurers  who  hastened  to  the 
scene  of  strife  and  carnage,  Ihere  are,  perhaps,  none  with 
whose  history  and  whose  fate  \iq  are  more  familiar  than 
those  of  Eichard  I.  of  England,  better  known  as  the  Lion 
Hearted.  Gigantic  in  size,  and  i^erculean  in  strength, 
Bichard's  whole  life,  after  attaining  ma^ihood,  seems  to  have 
been  a  succession  of  wars  and  turmoil.  But  though  lawless 
in  habits,  and  ferocious  as  the  beast  whosQ  name  he  bears, 
Hichard  found  time  to  love  and  woo,  and  it  is  said  his 


EIOHAED,     CCEUR    DE    LION.  83 


J 


l«ve  was  fervent,  tender,  and  disinterested.  He  had  been 
"betrothed  when  a  child  to  Adelais,  or  Alice,  infant  sister  of 
Philip,  king  of  France.  Tliis  princess  had  been  delivered 
to  Henry  of  England,  Richard's  father,  as  hostage,  and  had 
been  brought  np  at  Henry's  conrt,  but  for  some  cause  ho 
refused  to  allow  the  consummation  of  the  miarriage,  which 
was  the  ostensible  pretext  for  Richard's  joining  Philip, 
Alice's  brother,  in  a  war  with  Henry,  Meanwhile  Richard, 
while  thus  clamoring  vociferously  for  his  affianced  bride, 
whom  his  father  wished  to  bestow  on  John,  his  younger  son, 
and  who,  it  is  said,  passionately  loved  her,  was  assiduously 
paying  his  den^oirs  to  Berengaria,  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
the  Kin'o^  of  I^avarre. 

Richard  had  been  received  at  her  father's  court  some  two 
years  before  his  own  father's  death,  and  was  passionately 
enamored  of  her.  His  love  was  romantic,  and  what  was 
strange  for  Richard,  free  from  sordid  motives  ;  for  he  gained 
no  territories  for  her  dower,  and  he  stipulated  for  no  political 
advantaa^e.  Bereno^aria  seeme  to  have  returned  his  love 
with  equal  ardor ;  and  though  at  first  it  may  seem  strange 
that  a  delicate,  high-bred  lady  like  the  Princess  of  i^^avarre 
could  love  such  an  one  as  Richard,  we  are  to  recollect  that 
in  those  days  strength,  and  courage,  and  reckless  hardihood 
were  regarded  as  man's  highest  attributes. 

When  at  the  death  of  his  father  Richard  might  have 
claimed  Adelais,  he  utterly  rejected  her,  and  though  busy 
in  his  gigantic  preparations  for  war  with  the  infidel,  he  dis- 
patched his  mother,  the  dowager  queen,  Eleanor,  to  ask  the 
hand  of  Berengaria,  who,  undismayed  by  danger  or  hard- 
ship, joyfully  consented  to  follow  her  intended  mother-in- 
law  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Alps  and  Apennines,  and 
thence  to  follow  her  husband  "beyond  sea  to  the  land  of 
the  pagan."  Departing  from  Navarre  with  a  grand  escort 
of  barons,  knights,  and  priests,  Berengaria  and  Eleanor, 
who  still  retained  her  vigor,  traveled  by  land  to  ISTaples, 
where  they  enjoyed  a  short  rest,  thence  through  the  danger- 
ous passes  of  Monteforte  and  Bovino,  and  over  the  vast 
plain  of  Apulia,  arriving  at  length  at  the  ancient  city  of 
Brindisi.     Here  they  found  the  fleet  of  Richard  so  nearly 


84  KICHAKD,      I'GEUKDELION. 

ready  to  sail,  it  was  tlioiiglit  best  not  to  delay  the  expedi- 
tion ;  besides  the  season  of  Lent  not  being  qnite  past,  the 
royal  marriage  was  not  celebrated  at  Messina,  as  lirst  con- 
templated. So  Eleanor  placed  the  bride  in  the  care  of 
Joan,  dowager  queen  of  Sicily,  and  embarked  for  England. 
Eleanor,  it  will  be  remembered  by  the  readers  of  history, 
had  in  former  years  visited  Palestine  with  her  first  husband, 
Louis  of  France,  which,  together  with  her  advanced  age, 
mav  well  account  for  her  return  to  Enorland. 

The  day  after  the  departure  of  the  queen  mother,  the 
whole  fleet  set  sail  for  Acre.  The  historians  of  that  day  are 
profuse  in  their  praises  of  the  "goodly  show" — the  flag  of 
England  floating  over  flfty-three  galleys,  thirteen  dromones, 
or  three-masted  ships,  one  hundred  busses,  and  many 
smaller  craft.  They  floated  gayly  through  the  Straits,  and 
out  into  the  Sicilian  sea,  favored  by  wind  and  tide,  l)ut  a 
great  storm  arose  soon  after,  which  scattered  this  galhxnt 
fleet,  and  not  a  few  were  lost.  Eichard,  with  a  delicacy 
hardly  to  be  expected  in  one  so  rude,  put  his  bride  and 
sister,  with  their  immediate  suite,  into  a  separate  ship,  and 
embarked  on  another  himself.  After  much  hardship,  and  a 
narrow  escape  from  shipwreck,  Ilichard  arrived  at  Khodes, 
where  he  fell  sick.  Unable  to  take  the  sea,  the  Lion  sent  some 
of  his  swiftest  ships  in  pursuit  of  his  sister  and  his  bride, 
but  spent  many  days  in  the  most  harassing  anxiety  before 
lie  heard  any  tidings  of  them.  At  length  word  was  brought 
that  two  of  his  ships  had  been  driven  ashore  on  the  island 
of  Cyprus,  and  that  the  people  of  the  island  had  plundered 
the  ships,  and  imprisoned  the  soldiers  and  crew.  Vowing 
vengeance,  Richard  set  sail  for  Cyprus,  and  off"  the  port  of 
Limisso  he  found  the  galley  containing  his  bride  and  sister 
unharmed. 

Cyprus  was  at  that  time  governed  by  Isaac,  a  prince  of 
the  royal  race  of  Commeni.  When  harshly  called  to  account 
by  Richard,  he  made  hasty  preparations  for  resistance,  but 
after  a  severe  conflict  he  was  made  captive  and  thrown  into 
prison,  loaded  with  heavy  chains,  but  wliich  Richard,  out 
of  consideration  for  his  rank,  ordered  to  be  made  of  silver. 
But  that  part  of  his  misfortune  which  was  felt  most  heavily 


KICHARD,     CCEURDELON.  85 

by  tlie  Cj'preaii  emperor,  was  the  capture  of  his  only 
daughter,  a  young  girl,  tenderly  beloved  by  her  father,  and 
whom  Kichard  carried  awav  with  him  as  maid  for  the  fair 
Berengaria. 

Isaac,  who  doated  on  his  child,  lost  all  heart  on  losing 
her,  and  throwing  himself  at  Kichard's  feet,  offered  to 
surrender  all,  so  he  would  restore  his  child,  but  he  sternly 
refused.  At  length,  having  subjugated  Cyprus,  Eichard 
returned  to  Lemasol,  and  celebrated  his  marrias-e  wdth 
Berengaria,  who  was  anointed  and  crowned  by  the  Bishop 
of  Evereux. 

But  it  does  not  appear  that  Kichard's  heroic  queen, 
though  she  suffered  so  much  hardship,  and  braved  so  many 
perils  for  his  sake,  ever  enjoyed  much  of  his  society, 
or  realized  any  thing  of  domestic  tranquillity.  Almost 
immediately  on  his  marriage,  he  set  sail  for  Acre,  and  the 
next  day  encountered  and  took  an  enemy's  ship  of  superior 
size,  after  a  desperate  battle.  Arriving  at  Acre,  which  had 
been  besieged  two  years  by  the  fierce  King  Philip,  old 
animosities  were  again  revived  between  him  and  Richard, 
which  was  shared  by  their  respective  followers,  insomuch 
they  refused  to  fight  in  concert.  At  length,  however, 
Acre  capitulated,  and  after  a  brief  and  stormy  sojourn, 
Kichard  left  his  wife  and  sister  there,  and  set  out  on  his 
expedition  to  Jerusalem,  which  he  never  reached;  but  after 
incredible  hardships,  toils,  and  "hair-breadth  escapes,"  he 
finally  set  out  for  his  own  kingdom,  in  the  month  of  October, 
1192. 

For  some  reason,  Richard  again  embarks  on  a  difi:erent 
ship  from  that  on  which  his  sister  and  queen  were  conveyed ; 
and  again  the  fleet  was  scattered,  and  many  of  the  vessels 
were  wrecked.  We  are  told,  however,  that  Berengaria 
and  Queen  Joan  arrived  safe  in  Sicily.  Tlie  Lion  Hearted, 
as  usual,  met  with  a  succession  of  disasters,  and  was  finally 
thrown  into  an  Austrian  prison,  where  he  remained  in 
close  confinement  for  fourteen  months.  At  length,  behig 
discovered  by  some  of  his  followers,  and  a  princely  ransom 
wrung  from  his  subjects  being  paid  for  him,  he  arrived  in 
England  after  an  absence  of  more  than  four  years,  only  to 


BO       FATOKITE    MEANS    OF    COMMITTING    SUICIDE. 

engage  in  fresh  turmoils.  Finally,  on  the  6th  of  April, 
1100,  he  expired  "in  anguish  and  contrition," having  reigned 
scarcely  ton  years,  "  not  one  of  which,"  it  has  been  remarked, 
"was  spent  in  England,  but  had  all  been  wasted  in  war,  or 
preparation  for  war."  Eichard,  at  his  death,  was  little 
more  than  forty,  and  left  no  children  to  succeed  him. 


FAVORITE  MEANS  OF  COMMITTING  SUICIDE. 

Wearing  thin  shoes  on  damp  nights,  and  in  rainy  weather. 

Building  on  the  air-tight  principle. 

Leading  a  life  of  enfeebling,  stupid  laziness,  and  keeping 
the  mind  in  a  round  of  unnatural  excitement  by  reading 
trashy  novels. 

Going  to  balls  through  all  sorts  of  weather  in  the  thinnest 
possible  dress. 

Dancing  in  crowded  rooms  till  in  complete  perspiration, 
and  then  going  home  through  the  damp  night  air. 

Sleej)ing  on  feather  beds  in  seven-by-nine  bed-rooms. 

Surfeiting  on  hot  and  highly  stimulating  dishes. 

Beginning  in  childhood  on  tea,  and  going  on  from  one  step 
of  stimulation  to  another,  through  coffee,  chewing,  choking, 
and  drinking. 

Marrying  in  haste,  getting  an  uncongenial  companion, 
and  living  the  rest  of  life  in  mental  dissatisfaction. 

Intermarrying. 

Keeping  children  quiet  by  teaching  them  how  to  suck 
candy. 

Entailing  disease  upon  posterity  by  disregarding  the  phys- 
iological laws  of  marriage,  the^x^r^/<z^  is  held  responsible. 

Eating  without  time  to  masticate  the  food. 

Allowing  love  of  gain  to  absorb  our  minds  as  not  to  leave 
us  time  to  attend  to  health. 

Following  an  unhealthy  occupation,  because  money  can 
be  made  by  it. 

Tempting  the  appetite  with  niceties  when  the  stomach 


thejeart'sidol.  8', 


THE  HEAET'S  IDOL, 

BY    MRS.    JOSEPH    H.    HANAFORD. 

**  I  would  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay       , 
"Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way; 
The  few  lurid  mornings  that  dawu  on  us  here, 
Are  enough  for  life's  woes,  full  enough  for  its  cheer." 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  early  spring.  For  more  than 
an  hour  Clara  Montford  had  been  sitting  at  the  open  window 
of  her  cottage  home,  apparently  enjoying  the  sights  and 
scenes  around  her.  A  broad,  rich  tract  of  meadow  Land 
spread  out  in  front  of  the  pretty  garden,  which  lay  immedi- 
ately beneath  the  window,  and  through  it  meandered  the 
gentle  river  whose  waters  sparkled  beneath  the  beams  of  the 
moon  just  appearing  in  the  eastern  horizon,  sending  a  thrill 
of  strange,  romantic  delight  to  Clara's  heart,  as  she  gazed 
upon  their  beauty.  There  is  a  peculiar  connection  between 
the  glorious  moonlight  and  the  love  of  a  human  heart. 
Seldom  does  the  lover  fail  to  declare  that  mystic  tie  of  sym- 
pathy between  his  emotions  and  the  moonlit  hour,  even 
if  it  is  only  tacitly  acknowledged  by  the  frequent  choice  of 
such  an  evening  for  long  walks  with  the  loved  one,  or  sol- 
itary rambles  for  romantic  meditation.  The  calmness  of  the 
evening  above  mentioned  was  mirrored  for  a  season  in  the 
soul  of  the  feir  young  girl  who  listened  to  the  faint  music 
of  the  far  off  waterfall,  and  heard  the  sighing  of  the  evening 
breezes  in  the  branches  of  the  evergreens  around,  with  an 
indefinable  emotion  of  mingled  love  and  sadness.  Too  often 
are  the  tones  of  sorrow  mingled  with  those  of  love  on  earth, 
but  as  Clara  gazed  upward  at  the  gradually  forthcoming 
stars,  as  the  evening  shades  came  on,  she  thought  of  the 
land  where  the  notes  of  love  and  joy  alone  may  harmonize, 
and  there  was  sweet  peace  in  the  reflection.  Thus  evermore 
is  the  remembrance  of  the  heavenly  land  a  solace  to  the 
weary  of  life,  to  the  sorrow  stricken,  to  the  pensive  and  the 
hopeful  soul.  God's  great  revelation  of  a  life  to  come,  and 
the  Christian's  glad  home  of  rest,  reaches  us  as  the  song  of 


88  theueakt'sidol. 

tlie  earliest  LirJ  in   spring,  and  tlie  fragrance  of  spring's 
earliest  flower,  welcome,  most  welcome  forever. 

"Why  does  lie  not  come?"  were  the  murmured  words 
which  at  last  stole  from  the  lips  of  the  waiting  one,  upon  the 
car  of  Nature,  but  the  stars  shone  on  more  brilliantly  as 
night  came  nearer,  the  \vind  freshened  and  sang  more  loudly 
in  the  forest  tops,  the  moon  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  leav- 
ing Clara  without  a  reply,  and  for  a  long  time  she  continued 
to  watch  and  enjoy  them  alone. 

At  last  there  was  a  familiar  step.  A  hand  was  on  the 
wicket.  The  gate  opened,  closed  again,  a  few  footfalls, 
and  "William  Armand  entered  the  house,  advancing  directly 
to  the  little-sitting  room  where  Clara  had  so  long  expected 
him. 

"I  am  late,  Clara,  I  know,''  said  he  hurriedly,  "but  you 
will  forgive  me,  since  I  could  not  come  before,  if  you  only 
knew  how  I  longed  to  be  here." 

What  maiden  heart  could  hear  such  words,  and  continue 
obdurate  to  such  pleading?  Of  course  forgiveness  for  the 
delay  was  awarded,  and  the  lovers  strolled  forth  together 
to  renew  beneath  the  moonbeams  those  asseverations  which 
too  often  constitute  the  whole  of  the  afiection  pretended. 
Tliere  was  no  pretension  in  Clara,  however.  All  she  utter- 
ed was  truth  itself  She  acted  as  she  felt,  and  spoke  only 
as  afiection  dictated,  and  thus  guileless  herself,  and  blinded 
by  the  short-sighted  Cupid,  she  imagined  her  lover,  William 
Armand,  the  very  soul  of  honor,  and  her  "  heaic-ideal  of  perfec- 
tion." Was  he  worthy  of  such  love,  and  such  titles?  Hark 
to  his  low-breathed  tones,  soft  as  the  sighing  of  the  summer 
breeze.  He  is  pressing  the  hand  he  holds  in  his  own,  and 
gazing  into  those  dark  eyes,  which  look  up  into  his  own  so 
lovingly,  and  withal  so  trustfully. 

"  Clara,  if  you'll  be  true  to  me,  I'll  be  true  to  you." 
These  words  were  on  his  lips  but  a  moment ;  they  stirred 
the  air  with  a  few  f^xint  vibrations,  and  then  perhaps  he 
thought  they  passed  away ;  but  no,  once  spoken  they  could 
never  be  wholly  recalled,  and  they  fell  upon  the  ear,  and 
were  engraven  deep  on  the  heart  of  his  fair  listener,  never- 
more to  be  erased. 


THE    heaet's    idol.  89 

Timid  as  a  dove,  she  scarcely  dared  to  reply  in  the  samo 
terms,  yet  her  heart  thrilled  with  joy  as  she  thought  these 
words  the  j^ledge  and  promise  of  nuchanging  love,  and  con- 
sequently of  coming  years  of  happiness.  She  imagined  the 
chalice  of  pleasure,  pure  and  unallo3-ed,  already  at  her  lips, 
and  joyfully  bent  that  maiden  head  to  sip  from  it.  Would 
any  rude  hand  snatch  it  from  ])er  ere  it  Avas  scarcely  tasted? 

''  William,"  was  her  reply,  ''  I  have  no  fear  of  being  false 
to  you.     You  may  trust  me  forever." 

''  Then  I  will  leave  you  now,  as  the  evening  is  so  far  spent. 
Your  parents  will  wish  your  return.     Do  not  forget,  Clara." 

And  thus  saying,  the  young  man  bounded  away.  Clara 
watched  his  receding  form.  "  How  abrupt  he  is  !"  thought 
she,  but  checked  the  thought,  least  it  should  seem  like 
blaming  her  heart's  idol.  Had  she  been  more  experienced 
in  the  school  of  love,  methinks,  she  would  have  mistrusted 
the  sincerity  of  that  atfection  which  seemed  to  prize  thus 
lightly  "love's  own  lingering  parting." 

In  the  dreams  of  the  midnight  hours  which  followed, 
Clara  heard  again  the  words  in  the  very  tones  of  her  belov- 
ed. "  If  you'll  be  true  to  me,  I'll  be  true  to  you,"  and  rough 
as  the  sentence  might  seem  to  some,  and  commonplace  as  it 
might  really  be,  to  the  young  dreamer's  heart  it  was 
smoother  than  the  verse  of  Homer,  and  softer  than  Eolian 
melody,  v\'ith  a  world  of  meaning  in  it,  to  be  developed  in  a 
future  of  love. 

"Dream  on,  Clara,"  might  a  pitying  angel  say,  as  he 
guarded  her  slumbers,  "for  thy  waking  hours  may  be  less 
bright  and  joyous." 

Morning  came.  The  duties  of  her  home  w^ere  performed 
with  unusual  alacrity  by  Clara,  and  her  mother  remarked  that 
she  seemed  happier  than  ever.  With  true  maternal  sympa- 
thy slie  was  solicitous  to  know  the  cause,  and  womanly  dis- 
crimination enabled  her  to  divine  it. 

"  Clara,  dear,"  said  she,  in  a  winning  tone,  "  what  did 
young  Armand  say  to  you  last  night  which  makes  you  so 
happy  to-day?  You  told  me  he  had  never  said  much  of 
love  to  you  before.     Has  he  now,  darling  daughter?" 

As  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Montford  drew  her  blushing  daughter 


90  T  11  E     H  It  A  R  T  '  S    I  D  O  L  . 

to  lier  side,  luid  Clara  wliispercd  out  tlie  very  words  wliich 
William  liad  said.  Mrs.  Moiitford  was  silent  and  thought- 
ful for  a  few  moments,  and  then  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone 
and  serious  manner,  "  You  are  both  very  young,  Clara,  and  can 
scarcely  be  expected  to  know  your  own  rninds.  Of  course 
it  must  be  many  years  ere  you  can  think  of  marriage,  but 
there  is  one  thing  of  which  I  have  often  warned  you,  which 
I  must  mention  again.  Beware,  dear  daughter,  of  making 
AVilliam  an  idol.  Do  not  enthrone  him  in  your  heart,  Je- 
sus alone  should  rule  supreme  in  every  human  heart,  and 
you  must  be  careful,  or  "William  will  take  the  very  place 
there  wliich  I  have  so  long  desired  might  be  given  by  you 
to  your  Saviour.  I  can  not  say  that  you  will  not  both  be 
faithful  for  long  years  to  come,  but  there  is  no  certainty  of 
that  fact,  and  as  man  is  oftener  the  first  to  change,  woman 
is  often  the  greatest  sufferer.  So  beware  of  idolizing  Wil- 
liam, for  he  may  change,  and  then  your  suffering  will  be  in 
proportion  to  your  love.  Oh,  that  you  loved  the  Saviour  as 
well !'' 

A  rap  at  the  door  of  the  cottage  caused  Mrs.  Montford  to 
cease  speaking,  while  Clara,  deeply  impressed  by  her  moth- 
er's earnest  words,  opened  it.  A  small  boy  stood  there  with 
a  letter  in  his  hand.  It  was  for  "  Miss  Clara  Montford," 
but  no  postmark,  and  had  been  given  the  boy  by  a  young 
man.  So  recent  had  been  Clara's  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ance w^ith  her  young  lover,  that  she  did  not  recognize  his 
chirography,  but  started  as  she  saw  his  name  at  the  bottom 
of  the  brief  epistle,  commenced  by  the  cold  term  "  Miss 
Montford." 

Clara  was  alone,  her  mother  having  left  the  room  on  some 
household  duty.  With  deep  agitation  of  spirit  she  read  on : 
"  I  wish  to  be  released  from  my  implied  engagement  to  you. 
I  was  plasty  in  uttering  the  words  of  last  evening.  I  have 
never  loved  you,  or  any  other  female  on  the  earth,  and  it 
would  be  wrong  for  me  to  profess  love  when  I  feel  it  not. 
I  shall  probably  never  marry.  From  this  date  we  will  re- 
main as  we  were  before  our  late  interview.  You  are  releas- 
ed, and  that  you  may  be  happy  is  the  sincere  wish  of 

"William  Akmand." 


THE     heart's     idol.  91 

Cruel  letter !  The  warm  life-blood  receded  in  its  currents^ 
tlie  pale,  moist  brow  grew  paler,  paler,  and  the  stricken  one 
sank  upon  the  floor,  all  unconscious  of  her  sorrow  and  its 
author.  Her  mother  heard  the  fall,  and  rushed  to  her 
assistance.  As  soon  as  her  remedies  were  successful,  she 
inquired  the  cause  of  this  sudden  emotion,  and  the  iugen- 
nous  dauo'hter,  blessed  with  a  mother  in  whom  she  could 
confide,  pointed  to  her  letter,  and  bade  that  dear  parent  read 
its  scoi'cliing  words. 

"Alas!  dear  Clara,"  was  her  mother's  first  remark; 
"  would  that  I  could  have  spared  jou  this,  awhile  at  least ! 
Yet,  perhaps  it  is  best  for  you  to  learn  the  lesson  while  so 
young.  Truly  does  the  good  book  warn  us,  saying:  'Set 
your  aflections  on  things  above,  not  on  things  on  the  earth.' 
Can  you  not  pray  over  this,  my  child  ?  Christ  is  the  best 
physician  for  the  sorrow-stricken  soul,  the  very  one  your 
spirit  needs  in  this  hour  of  anguish." 

Clara  looked  up  through  tears  and  said,  "Perhaps  it  is 
best  as  it  is,  mother,  but  oh,  how  difi:erent  from  what  I 
hoped  !  God  has  indeed  taken  my  idol  from  me.  I  will  go 
up  to  my  room  awhile." 

Mrs.  Montford  did  not  oppose  the  resolution.  Silence 
and  solitude,  with  their  allies,  meditation,  memory,  and 
reflection,  she  rightly  deemed  appropriate  to  Clara's  present 
wounded  feelings. 

Alone  in  her  own  room,  Clara  re-read  that  stern  messen- 
ger of  anguish  to  her  loving,  trusting  spirit ;  and  her  tears 
fell  i\\st  upon  it,  blotting  it  in  many  places,  and  giving  evi- 
dence that  AVilliam  Armand  had  made  one  heart,  at  least, 
sad  by  his  course.  Clara  was  young,  but  she  was  woman 
enough  to  love  truly  and  fervently,  and  as  the  tall  rushes 
bow  before  the  mighty  tornado,  so  bowed  her  spirit  to  this 
stormy  blast  of  sorrow.  "God  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,"  and  He  had  not  laid  upon  her  a  greater  weight 
of  sadness  than  she  could  bear ;  besides,  He  was  present  in 
that  hour  to  strengthen  her. 

Clara  prayed  as  she  had  never  done  before.  A  new  light 
seemed  shed  upon  her  mind,  and  she  perceived,  as  she  had 
never  before,  that  she  had  indeed  been  placing  her  hopes 


92  TIIEHEARTSIDOL. 

and  affections  on  a  "  baseless  fabric,"  Avben  she  onght  to 
have  rendered  her  freshest  affection  and  earliest  love  to  her 
Saviour,  to  Him  ^vllo  i'bore  our  griefs  and  carried  our  sor- 
rows," and  "  by  whose  stripes  we  are  healed." 

She  arose  from  that  earnest  petition  with  a  firm  resolve  to 
love  God  supremely  lienceforth,  and  taking  her  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  she  sat  down  by  the  window  to  reply  to  the  note 
which  had  given  her  such  sorrow,  since  it  assured  her  that 
she  was  not  dear  to  him  she  loved  so  well.  In  tliat  horn- 
she  could  liave  sympathized  with  the  unfortunate  Josephine, 
when  informed  that  she  must  no  longer  be  the  wife  of  the 
Emperor  Xapoleon. 

"William,"  she  wrote,  '-you  have  given  me  more  pain 
than  I  ever  knevv^  in  all  my  life  before  ;  but  you  have  opened 
my  eyes,  and  shown  me  my  true  situation.  For  this  alone 
I  can  thank  yon,  while  years  must  pass  ere  I  can  cease  to 
suffer  from  this  sudden  change  in  all  my  hopes,  plans,  and 
prospects.  I  had  made  an  idol  of  you  in  my  heart.  It  may 
not  be  unmaidenly  to  confess  it,  for  I  did  it  all  unconscious- 
ly ;  but  you  have  liurled  yourself  from  that  pinnacle  in  my 
affections,  and  the  place  is  vacant  now  for  Him  who  alone  is 
worthy,  and  to  whom  it  belongs.  Henceforth  I  will  love 
God.  He  will  never  change  ;  and  there  need  be  no  fear  that 
I  shall  be  too  devoted  to  His  service.  My  love  for  you 
might  have  plunged  my  soul  in  sin  and  consequent  sorrow, 
but  love  for  God  will  make  me  more  holy,  and  moi-e  happy 
forever.  Go,  William ;  T  would  not  hold  you  against  your 
w^ill ;  nor  could  I  ever  trust  in  you  again ;  but  oh,  do  not 
deceive  another !  Let  no  other  be  caused  by  you  to  suffer 
as  I  have  suffered  to-day.  May  God  forgive  you ;  may  you 
repent  of  all  your  sins,  and  becoming  pure-hearted,  honest, 
honorable,  and  upright,  may  yon  be  happy  here  and  here- 
after. Clara  Montford." 

Clara  confided  her  note  to  her  mother,  who  was  deeply 
solicitous  for  her  daughter's  welfare,  and  was  rejoiced  to 
find  that  she  seemed  about  to  pass  through  the  ordeal  suc- 
cessfully ;  and,  as  usual,  the  gold  of  her  young  spirit  would 
be  all  the  purer  for  the  refining  process. 

Of  the  effect  of  her  note  upon  her  faithless  lover,  Clara 


THE    heart's     IDOL.  93 

had  no  means  of  deciding,  as  lie  left  the  village  for  a  dis- 
tant city  in  a  very  short  time,  without  deigning  any  further 
notice  to  the  young  heart,  the  tendrils  of  whose  warm  affec- 
tions he  had  suffered  to  twine  around  himself,  and  whom  he 
had  wooed  as  pastime,  without  the  desire  of  winning. 

Years  passed  away,  and  Clara  proved  herself  a  sincere 
and  devoted  follower  of  Jesus— "the  way,  the  truth,  and 
the  life."  Calmly  and  contentedly  had  she  dwelt  with  her 
parents,  peace  and  prosperity  having  been  around  them. 
Another  evening  in  another  April  ai-rived,  and  again  was 
she  seated  in  the  window  where  we  first  saw  her,  gentle 
reader.  But  this  time  she  is  not  waiting  the  tardy  move- 
ments of  one  who  was  no  true  lover.  The  moon  beams 
mildly  upon  her  fair  brow,  and  shows  another  at  her  side, 
one  of  lofty  bearing  and  noble  countenance.  She  is  indeed 
no  longer  alone.  Her  husband  sits  beside  her.  Her  hand 
is  clasped  in  his,  and  he  speaks  in  love's  own  music  tones, 
"Say,  Clara,  did  you  ever  love  another?"  "Never,  dear 
Clarence,  with  the  depth  of  affection  which  you  have  called 
forth.  I  did  have  an  idol  once,  however,  and  loved  him  as 
much  as  I  was  then  capable  of  loving.  But  he  deceived 
me  ;  and  I  now  rejoice  that  he  did.  My  faithless  lover  was 
the  means,  under  Divine  power,  of  leading  me  to  the  cross 
of  Christ  a  penitent  and  a  suppliant.  I  did  suffer  in  that 
hour,  for  my  pride,  as  well  as  my  young  affections,  was 
wounded ;  but  I  can  bless  God  now  for  the  kindly  stroke, 
though  then  it  seemed  severe." 

"Have  you  ever  met  your  faithless  lover  since?" 

"Yes,  I  met  him  with  his  wife  and  child.  Like  Lord 
Byron,  I  kissed  the  child  for  its  parent's  sake ;  but  not  be- 
cause I  loved  him  still ;  only  I  felt  grateful  to  God  that  he 
was  the  instrument,  though  unknowingly,  of  my  regenera- 
tion;  and  so  I  could  forgive  him  all  the  sorrow  he  ever 
caused  me." 

"And  you  have  never  regretted  that  you  were  not  his 
wife,  and  will  not  regret  it  ?" 

"  Dear  Clarence,  you  need  not  ask  me  those  questions,  for 
you  know  that  I  rejoice  that  we  were  thus  early  separated; 
for  this  reason,  too,  that  had  I  been  his  wife,  I  should  never 


94  THE    heart's    IDOL. 

liave  been  the  bride  of  one  as  worthy  of  the  best  and  noblest 
as  yourself  I  have  heard  that  my  faithless  lover  once  said, 
he  connnitted  one  error  in  his  life  when  he  deceived  me  ;  but 
I  have  h)nii'  since  ceased  to  rem'ct  it.  I  could  never  love 
him  aii'ain." 

Mrs  Montford  entered,  and  Clara,  rising,  led  her  to  the 
window,  and  said,  "Do  you  remember,  dear  mother,  the 
night  when  I  watched  so  long  at  this  window  for  William 
Armand,  and  the  moonlight  stroll  of  which  we  then  par- 
took r 

"Oh,  3-es,  ni}^  daughter!" 

"  And  do  you  remember  the  letter  which  I  received  on 
the  very  next  morning?" 

"Indeed  I  do;  and  how  earnestly  I  prayed  that  God 
would  overrule  your  early  disappointment  for  your  highest 
spiritual  good ;  and  I  think  He  answered  fully  my  petition. 
I  knew  from  experience,  and  from  the  writings  of  others, 
that  there  were  few  young  women  who  arrived  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  without  having  experienced  the  sadness  of  heart 
which  nnrerpiited  love,  or  a  faithless  lover  may  cause.  But 
I  knew,  too,  that  oftentimes  the  suffering  from  these  causes 
produced  a  salutary  effect ;  and  while  I  regretted  that  my 
Clara  must  suffer,  I  was  yet  rejoiced  to  perceive  that  her 
'  light  affliction,  which  was  but  for  a  moment,'  was  likely, 
through  the  blessing  of  God,  to  '  work  out  for  her  a  far  more 
eternal  and  exceeding  weight  of  glory.'  " 

"At  first,"  added  Clara,  "I  felt  as  if  the  light  and  hope 
of  life  had  gone.  Although  I  strove  to  feel  wholly  resigned 
to  -the  will  of  God,  I  could  not  resist  the  conviction  that  life 
was  not  as  sweet  as  before  the  roses  were  suddenly  taken 
from  my  path,  and  I  felt  the  thorns.  I  was  accustomed  to 
pass  about  the  house  singing  the  hymn,  '  I  would  not  live 
alway,'  etc.,  but  as  I  entered  more  entirely  into  the  service 
of  my  Eedeemer,  I  found  enough  to  occupy  my  mind  and 
heart,  and  labor  for  Christ  brought  me  the  sweet  reward  of 
peace.  I  can  say  with  the  Psalmist  now,  *  it  is  good  for  me 
that  I  have  been  afflicted ;  before  I  was  afflicted  I  went 
astray ;  but  now  have  I  learnt  thy  law.'  I  suffered  some, 
but  I  can  not  now  regret  that  I  orce  had  a  faithless  lover." 


THE    STUDENT.  95 


THE    STUDENT. 


BY    J.    R.    HIGGINS. 


The  present  condition  of  tlie  world,  its  advancement  in 
literature  and  art,  its  brilliant  achievements  in  the  refor- 
mation of  societv,  and  the  ofeneral  diffusion  of  intelli,n:ence, 
show  clearlv  that  mind,  immortal  mind,  is  destined  to  out- 
live  all  the  dogmas  of  superstition,  and  think  and  act  in  a 
higher  sphere.  Old  errors  have  disappeared  before  the 
march  of  mind,  like  the  dewy  breath  of  morning  before  the 
splendor  of  the  sun. 

Improvement  has  become  the  general  watchword  in  every 
department  of  labor,  whether  mental  or  physical.  And  he 
who  does  not  discover  some  new  truth,  or  develop  some 
deeply-hidden  principle,  is  far  behind  the  age  in  which  he 
lives.  But  who  has  been  the  grand  actor  in  all  these  improve- 
ments ?  We  say  emphatically,  it  is  the  Student.  He  alone 
has  been  able  to  make  known  those  important  truths  which 
shine  forth  with  so  much  splendor  in  the  moral,  political, 
and  religious  world.  We  have  seen  him  here  compelling 
the  earth  to  yield  her  treasures,  the  sea  to  bear  the  burdens 
of  man  from  shore  to  shore,  and  the  lightnings  to  obey  him ; 
then  ascendino-  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  to  discover  her 
source,  or  traversing  the  scorching  plains  of  Africa,  bearing 
the  germs  of  civilization,  or  searching  among  the  ruins  of 
antiquity  to  discover  some  relic  of  her  former  greatness. 
Again  we  observe  him  ascending  far  higher  than  the  eagle 
or  condor  dares  to  soar.  With  the  motto,  "  there  is  no  dif- 
ficulty to  him  who  wills,"  indelibly  engraven  upon  his  heart, 
he  has  sent  the  light  of  his  genius  to  enlighten  almost  every 
dark  corner  of  the  globe.  He  has  tuned  his  harp  upon  the 
mountains  of  Scotland,  in  the  delightful  gardens  of  Italy, 
and  in  the  Avilds  of  America,  to  sounds  of  sweetest  strains. 
He  has  thundered  forth  his  eloquence  in  the  Roman  Forum, 
in  the  Parliament  of  Britain,  and  in  the  Senate  of  our  own 
Republic.  His  field  is  the  world,  and  he  grasps  in  his 
thoughts  the  whole  created  universe :  his  mind  bursts  all 
mental  gloom,  and  like  the  lightning  of  heaven,  glares  upon 


96  THE     STUDENT 

every  cloud.  To  liim  from  the  spring-time  of  liis  life  to  old 
age  is  opened  a  field  for  improvement.  If  he  is  a  farmer,  he 
studies  and  analyzes  the  properties  of  soils,  ana  discovers 
under  what  condition  it  will  yield  most  abundantly  and 
when  lie  l)eholds  the  yellow  harvest,  and  hears  the  rustling 
music  of  its  grain,  he  feels  fully  compensated  for  all  his  toil. 
If  an  author,  he  studies  all  the  works  of  genius,  that  he  may 
add  to  his  own  the  treasures  of  others.  If  a  statesman,  he 
studies  the  laws  of  nations,  and  looks  out  for  the  best  inter- 
ests of  his  country.  If  a  philanthropist,  he  strives  to  benefit 
man,  b}-  extending  the  benefits  of  civilization  all  over  the 
globe.  But  in  no  country  have  the  efforts  of  the  Student  been 
60  successful  as  in  this.  In  its  youth  it  gave  fearless  utter- 
ance to  the  code  of  freedom,  and  established  its  independ- 
ence on  a  firm  basis.  The  forest  disappeared  before  the 
hardy  sons  of  industry,  and  art  reared  its  cities  and  villages, 
and  l3uilt  up  flourishing  towns,  and  education  spread  abroad 
the  light  of  intelligence  in  every  part  of  the  land.  Thus 
flourishing,  now  she  acknowledges  no  rival,  and  stands  in 
awe  of  no  power.  But  she  stands  a  glorious  monument  of  the 
Student's  labors,  whose  foundation  was  laid  by  the  immortal 
Adams  and  Jefferson.  She  stands  a  star  of  hope  to  the 
world  ;  and  through  her  influence  the  Student  sees  with  an 
almost  prophetic  eye,  in  the  dim  future,  all  oppression  at  an 
end,  and  the  tree  of  Liberty  spreading  its  broad  branches 
over  the  v/orld.  When  this  shall  have  been  accomplished, 
and  man  reached  the  acm6  of  human  perfection,  then,  and 
not  till  then,  will  the  ''  ultima  tlmU^^  of  the  Student's  hopes 
be  accomplished. 


Men  are  apt  not  only  to  forget  benefits  and  even  injuries, 
but  even  to  hate  those  who  have  obliged  them,  and  to  cease 
to  hate  those  who  have  injured  them.  The  very  attention  to 
requite  kindnesses,  and  revenge  wrongs,  seems  to  be  an  insup- 
portable slavery. 

The  greatest  ambition  entirely  conceals  itself,  when  what 
it  aspires  to  is  unattainable. 


THE  GLAD  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

BY  MRS.    J.    H.    HANAFORD. 

"  I  must  go  o'er  the  sea  to  other  lands ; 
It  is  the  call  of  duty ;  but  fear  not, 
I  shall  return,  and  then  our  loves  are  sure. 
Dream  not  of  danger  on  the  sea — one  Power 
Protects  us  alwajs,  and  the  honest  heart 
Fears  not  the  tempest." 

"  Yes,  dear  mother,  I  must  go,  and  if  I  meet  liim  not  this 
morning,  I  will  promise  not  to  go  to  the  cliff  again  until  the 


spring  comes,  and  then  perhaps  the  smi  will  beam  upon  my 
grave.'' 

The  speaker  passed  rapidly  out  of  the  house,  and  along  the 
path  which  had  been  trodden  in  the  light  snow  which  had 
fallen  the  day  before.  Her  name  was  Anna  Harford,  and 
she  who  was  addressed  was  well  known  in  the  little  village 
w^here  they  dwelt,  and  familiarly  styled  by  all  as  "Amit 
Ellis." 

Tears  came  to  the  .mother's  eyes  as  she  heard  her  daugh- 
ter's last  words,  and  perceived  that  she  sped  on  to  the  high, 
rocky  promontory,  which  commanded  an  extended  view  of 
the  sea,  with  a  celerity  which  betokened  anxiety  mingled 
with  hope.  Alas !  for  nearly  two  long  months  had  Anna 
Harford  thus  visited  the  cliff  every  morning,  as  well  as  every 
evening,  and  frequently  many  times  during  the  day.  "Wliy 
was  this  watchfulness  ?  What  meant  her  lonely  vigils  upon 
the  neighboring  sea-shore,  and  her  agonizing  grief  when  the 
subject  of  shipwreck  was  mentioned  before  her?  Why  did 
she  studiously  avoid  the  volume  of  sea-stories  which  she 
had  ever  loved  to  read,  and  sing  no  more  her  favorite  song, 

"  A  life  on  the  ocean  "w^ave  ?" 

Let  me  tell  you,  dear  reader,  and  if  you  have  any  sympathy 
with  a  wife's  emotions,  if  you  know  what  it  is  to  love  earn- 
estly, deeply,  devotedly  one  with  whom  your  earthly,  and 
perhaps  heavenly  destiny  is  united,  there  will  be  a  throb  iA 
your  heart,  and  a  moisture  in  your  eye,  which  no  other  Sttb- 

6 


98  THE     GLAD     THANKSGIVIiN'G     DAT. 

jcct  could  call  tlicre,  and  wliicli  will  tell  most  truly  tluit  a 
dcej^-toned  chord  of  your  spirit  lias  been  touched. 

Anna  Ellis  became  the  bride  of  William  Harford,  about 
two  years  before  our  story  commences,  and  a  prettier  bride, 
or  more  noble-looking  bridegroom  could  scarcely  have  been 
selected  in  that  vicinity.  More  than  this,  when  Anna  gave 
her  hand  to  young  Harford,  her  warm  heart  was  in  it,  and 
wdien  he  received  it  he  vowed  most  truly  to  love  and  cher- 
ish her  as  his  wife.  Their  sentiments  were  in  unison,  and 
they  were  happiest  only  when  in  each  other's  presence. 
Mr.  Harford's  business  was  that  of  a  merchant's  clerk  in  a 
town  contisruous  to  the  little  villa2:e  where  he  wooed  and 
won  his  gentle  and  beloved  wife.  For  a  season  their  home 
was  in  that  town,  and  a  happy  home  it  was.  Content  and 
cheerful,  though  with  little  of  this  world's  wealth,  they  en- 
vied not  the  great  of  earth,  but  sought,  together,  to  tread  the 
onward  and  upward  way.  They  were  both  the  true  disci- 
ples of  the  blessed  Saviour,  and  thus  their  union  was  but 
another  means  of  their  progression  in  that  "  holiness,  with- 
out which  no  man  shall  see  the  Lord."  Happy  is  it,  ever, 
when  the  matrimonial  relation  of  two  immortals  interferes 
not,  but  rather  is  promotive  of  the  right  discharge  of  all  the 
duties  involved  in  their  relations  to  God.  The  marriage  of 
two  loving  Christian  hearts  is  desirable,  but  the  union  of 
believer  with  unbeliever  is  ever  to  be  deplored. 

God  gave,  erewhile,  to  William  and  Anna  Harford  a 
"  cherub  boy."  Joy  filled  the  hearts  of  these  young  pa- 
rents, and  as  they  beheld  his  unfolding  graces,  and  watched 
his  daily  developments,  their  delight  increased,  while  sweet- 
est of  all  w\as  the  cherished  thought  that  this  infant  immor- 
tal might  one  day  stand  upon  the  mount  of  God  above, 
with  his  parents,  and  unite  his  voice  in  the  glorious  anthems 
of  the  redeemed.  Their  home  was  happier  for  his  little 
presence,  for  it  seemed  as  if  God  had  given  him  as  a  pledge 
of  His  love  to  them,  and  a  token  that  He  was  in  their 
midst. 

But  a  shadow  came,  and  it  grew  darker  and  darker,  until 
it  rivaled  in  its  solemnity  the  gloom  of  midnight  in  a  lonely 
forest.     It  was  nothing  less  than  the  breaking  up  of  their 


THE     GLAD     THANKSGIYING     DAT.  90 

little  family  circle,   and  the  severiDg  of  tliose  who  v;c'YQ 
dearei'  to  each  other  than  life. 

Business,  with  its  stern  call,  bade  Mr.  Harford  leave  his 
home,  and  proceed  on  a  short  voyage  for  the  good  of  the 
firm  in  whose  employ  he  wa.3  engaged,  and  the  voice  of 
duty  never  fell  upon  his  ear  in  vain. 

It  was  the  happy,  quiet,  twilight  hour  when  he  left  the 
store  of  his  employers,  and  proceeded  toward  his  cottage- 
home.  His  step  was  far  less  light  and  joyous  than  usual, 
when  he  turned  toward  that  beloved  sanctuary  of  domestic 
peace  and  felicity,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  something  to 
impart  to  his  cherished  companion,  which  would  bring  tears 
to  her  eyes,  and  deep  sorrow  to  her  heart.  She  saw  him 
in  the  distance  approaching,  and  a  dim,  shadow^y  foreboding 
arose  in  her  mind.  Who  can  solve  for  mortals  the  mystery 
of  such  presentiments?  How  often  have  every  one  of  us 
been  conscious  of  their  power,  even  while  we  have  failed  to 
acknowledge  their  existence  !  May  not  the  spirits  of  former 
loved  ones,  in  their  disembodied  range,  perceive  the  evil 
approaching,  and  softly  whisper  it  to  our  spirits,  that  it  may 
not  come  unexpectedly,  and  that,  as  Shakspeare  hath  it,  we 
may  be  "  forewarned,  forearmed  ?"  Who  can  reply  ?  Wo 
may  believe,  for  the  Word  of  God  declares  it,  that  angels 
are  the  "  ministering  spirits  to  them  who  are  the  heirs  of 
salvation,"  and  the  rest  is,  doubtless,  wisely  hidden  from 
our  view. 

Anna  glanced  at  her  infant  son,  and  seeing  that  he  was 
quietly  sleeping,  in  no  dangerous  proximity  to  any  thing 
that  could  harm,  she  opened  the  outer  door,  and  hastened 
to  meet  her  husband. 

He  smiled  upon  her  as  she  approached  him,  for  how  could 
he  greet  otherwise  the  wife  who  was,  he  well  knew,  devoted 
to  himself  alone,  but  his  smile  had  much  of  sadness  in  it, 
and  Anna  asked  the  cause. 

*'  Suspense  I  can  not  bear,  dear  husband,"  said  she  ;  "  do 
tell  me  at  once  why  you  are  sad  to-night.  A  husband  should 
have  no  sorrow  secret  from  the  wife,  whose  privilege  it  is  to 
share  his  griefs,  and  whose  joy  it  may  prove  to  alleviate 
them." 


100  THE     GLAD     T  II  A  N  K  S  G  I  y  I  N  G     DAT. 

"I  shrink,  my  loved  one,  from  the  sorrow  I  may  impart 
to  you,"  was  his  reply.  "  I  care  not  if  the  hurricane  should 
beat  npon  me  only,  if  I  conld  but  shield  you  from  eyery 
inclement  blast." 

"  Dear  William,  what  is  it  ?"  asked  Anna,  clinging  to  his 
arm,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  an  expression  indica- 
tiye  of  the  deepest  anxiety. 

"  We  must  be  parted  for  a  little  while,"  whispered  he. 
lie  knew  how  great  tlie  suffering  those  words  would  cause 
to  her,  and  he  could  not  then  utter  them  aloud. 

''  Parted  !  my  husband  !"  wildly  exclaimed  Anna ;  "  it 
miist  not  be.  Oh,  let  me  go  with  you  !  Any  where — to  the 
ends  of  the  earth — to  joy  or  to  sorrow.  Only  let  me  be  at 
your  side,  and  I  will  brave  all,  and  bear  all.  How  can  I 
live  without  you  ?" 

They  had  now  reached  their  home,  and  bearing  the  almost 
fainting  Anna  in  his  arms,  the  young  husband  laid  his  true- 
li carted  wife  upon  the  sofa.  Pointing  to  their  infant  son,  he 
paid,  "Anna,  Ac  will  be  left  to  cheer  you,  but  I  must  be 
alone.     Let  him  take  my  place  to  you  till  I  return." 

"  My  husband,  my  own  dear  husband  !"  solemnly  replied 
the  wife,  "  that  can  not  be.  I  love  our  little  Henry  with  a 
mother's  devoted  affection,  but  he  can  never  be  to  my  heart 
all  that  you  are.  As  I  clasp  him  to  my  bosom  he  will  only 
remind  me  more  forcibly  of  my  loved  one  far  away ;  and 
remember,  Yv^illiam,  the  wide  universe  holds  not  another 
liusband  for  your  wife.  If  you  must  go,  God  give  you  His 
protection,  and  me  all  needed  strength ;  but  oh,  hasten 
back  to  me  again  !"  She  grew  calmer  as  he  answered  her 
in  words  of  Christian  impoi-t,  and  reminded  her  of  the  duty 
of  submission  to  the  will  of  an  overruling  Providence — that 

"  Destiny  -which  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  as  we  will." 

She  learned  that  the  place  of  his  destination  was  not  far 
distant,  and  that  it  was  his  wish  that  she  should  seek  a 
home,  in  the  mean  time,  with  her  parents,  in  the  little  village 
we  have  mentioned  above.  And  then  he  promised  to  meet 
her  there  as  early  as  possible,  intending  to  leave  the  vessel 
in  a  boat,  and  not  wait  for  the  tardy  operation  of  reach- 


TUE     GLAD     THANKSGIVIXG     DAY.  101 

iiig  tlie  harbor   of  tlie  larger  town,   aiid  mooring  at  tlie 
wharf. 

"  Give  me  tliat  large,  red  shawl,  too,  love,  which  you 
once  wore,  and  on  my  retnrn  you  shall  behold  it,  giving 
token,  as  it  waves  in  the  sea-breeze,  that  oue  husband,  at 
least,  is  true  to  his  wife,  and  rejoices  to  return  to  her  once 
more.  Let  it  assure  you  of  my  health.  It  will  shorten  the 
period  of  your  suspense  ;  for,  with  your  father's  telescope, 
you  will  be  able  to  discern  it  from  a  distance,  and  may  thus 
know  that  the  man  of  your  choice  is  safe,  and  well,  and 
anxious  to  meet  you  and  our  darling  infant." 

At  this  moment  little  Henry  awoke.  A  bright  smile 
wreathed  his  lips  and  played  around  his  beautifully  chiseled 
mouth.  The  parents,  with  answering  smiles  of  affection, 
hailed  it  as  an  omen  of  bright  days  in  the  future.  Still,  be- 
tw^een  that  future  and  the  present  time,  there  was  a  wide, 
yawning  chasm,  a  deep,  dark  gulf,  and  sadness  soon  again 
rendered  paler  the  cheek  of  the  affectionate  wife.  We  may 
not  wonder  at  her  emotion  ;  Ave  should  not  chide  her  for 
them,  for  no  true  wife  can  bid  her  husband  adieu  even  for  a 
brief  period,  without  sadness  and  grief.  If  their  married 
life  is  what  that  holy  state  should  ever  be,  absence  from 
each  other,  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  household,  is  no 
lio:ht  affliction.  It  is  like  severing  the  vine  from  the  sturdy 
oak,  or  the  rock  from  its  clinging  moss. 

A  few  days  passed,  and  the  arrangements  w^ere  completed 
which  resulted  in  the  removal  of  Mrs.  Harford  and  her  lit- 
tle Henry  to  his  grandfather's,  where  he  was  ever  a  w^el- 
come  pet.  Mr.  Harford  accompanied  his  wife  and  child 
thither,  and  in  a  short  time  afterward  bade  tliem  adieu,  and 
went  forth  upon  the  ocean. 

And  oh,  how  sad  and  lonely  to  the  heart  of  both  husband 
and  wife  seemed  their  separation  on  this  night.  Amid  the 
creaking  of  timbers,  the  rattling  of  ropes,  and  the  loud 
voices  of  the  seamen,  Mr.  Harford  could  obtain  but  little 
sleep.  Tliey  were  new  sounds  to  him,  and  though  one  ac- 
customed to  them  could  sleep  as  well  as  if  surrounded  by 
primeval  silence  and  solitude,  he  could  not  find  an  hour's 
repose  for  the  night. 


102  TUE     GLAD     TUANKSGIVING     DAY. 

Aiinii  kiid  herself  down  at  lier  infant's  side,  having  com- 
mended her  beloved  hnsband,  in  the  prayer  she  never  forgot, 
to  the  God  who  "holds  the  waters  in  the  hollow  of  His 
liand."  Bnt  Morphens  v/as  invoked  vaiidy.  The  image  of 
her  hnsband,  far  ont  amid  the  dangers  of  the  billowy  deep, 
arose  to  her  mind  with  all  the  vivid  coloring  of  a  teeming 
imagination,  and  she  half  fancied  that  he  was  in  real  dan- 
ger, and  would  never  return.  The  thought  became  too  in- 
tense and  sorrowful  for  rest,  and  softly  pressing  a  kiss  upon 
her  baby's  cheek,  and  caring  for  its  comfortable  respose,  she 
left  the  room  for  the  piazza.  There  she  remained  w^alking 
to  and  fro,  until  the  town  clock,  afar  oil,  told,  in  the  silence 
of  the  night,  that  its  meridian  had  arrived. 

"  Midnight !"  exclaimed  she,  "  well,  I  must  return  and 
tiy  to  sleep.  It  is  not  performing  my  duty  to  my  husband 
or  my  babe,  thus  to  neglect  my  health.  I  w^  ill  strive  to  be 
faithful  in  every  duty,  though  my  chosen  companion  is  not 
near  to  cheer  and  encourage  me." 

]S^oble  resolve  !  There  have  been  those  wdio,  in  an  hour 
of  bereavement,  or  of  deep  disappointment,  desiring  to  for- 
get their  sorrows,  have  drank  deep  at  Lethe's  fount,  and 
strove  to  find  in  death,  oblivion  from  their  varied  w^oes ; 
but  the  true  philosopher,  as  well  as  true  Christian,  lives  on, 
and  affliction's  thorny  path  wdll  but  cause  him  to  pay  more 
heed  to  his  footsteps.  They  w-ho  "  let  patience  have  her 
perfect  w^ork,"  ever  exercising  that  excellent  possession — • 
charity — "  bearing  all  things"  even  unto  the  death  appoint- 
ed by  their  Heavenly  Father,  are  the  bravest,  and  more 
worthy  the  victor's  crown,  than  one  who,  with  cowardly 
shrinking  from  sorrow,  seeks  the  grave  as  its  only  comfort 
and  repose. 

Patiently,  cheerfully,  and  faithfully  did  Anna  perform 
every  duty  devolving  upon  her  in  her  husband's  absence, 
but  the  time  still  lingered,  and  sometimes  hung  heavily  on 
her  hands.  The  usual  time  required  for  a  passage  to  the 
destined  port,  and  return  to  their  home,  had  arrived,  when 
a  violent  storm  arose,  desolating  the  coast  for  many  miles 
around,  and  bringing  sorrow'  to  very  many  hearts,  whose 
loved  ones  w^ere  exposed  to  its  fury,  while  far  away  upon 


THE     GLAD     THANKSGIVING     DAY.  lOS 

the  faithless  billow.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week 
passed,  and  still  no  tidings  had  been  received  from  the  ves- 
sel in  which  Mr.  Harford  sailed.  They  knew  only  that  she 
had  left  her  foreign  port  for  home,  and  as  no  one  had  seen 
her  since  that  eventful  storm,  many  were  led  to  suppose 
that  she  had  foundered,  and  all  on  board  had  met  a  watery 
grave. 

Anna's  parents  were  among  the  last  to  believe  that  the 
vessel  would  not  return  bearing  their  esteemed  son-in-law, 
but  even  they  were  compelled  to  suppose  that  all  expecta- 
tions were  in  vain.  Xot  so  with  Anna.  She  could  not,  and 
therefore  would  not,  even  in  word,  resign  her  noble  husband 
to  such  a  fate.  Every  straw  which  floated  on  the  surface  of 
the  ocean  of  hope  was  eagerly  caught  by  her,  and  she  still 
visited  the  overhanging  cliff,  hoping  and  fearing,  yet  ever 
permitting  hope  to  be  predominant.  Sometimes  she  took 
their  little  son  with  her,  but  as  the  season  of  storms  ad- 
vanced, she  went  more  frequently  alone.  With  her  father's 
spy-glass  in  her  hand,  she  might  often  have  been  descried, 
perched  far  up  on  a  rock,  gazing  intently  on  some  approach- 
ing sail.  Many  mortal  eyes  might  behold  her  there,  but 
God  and  His  guardian  angels  only  might  hear  her  prayers 
and  supplications  upon  the  rocky  steep.  "  Spare  to  me  my 
husband,"  was  her  earnest  cry,  and  she  did  not  plead  in 
vain. 

The  day  on  which  our  tale  commences,  was  that  of  the 
well-known  thanksgiving  festival  in  Massachusetts.  But  no 
preparation  had  been  previously  made  for  its  celebration  b}' 
*' Aunt  Ellis"  and  her  family.  Too  great  was  the  contrast 
between  this  thanksgiving  season,  and  that  in  which,  a  few 
years  before,  Anna  became  a  happy  bride.  Instead  of  aris- 
ing to  meet  loved  friends  with  congratulations,  Anna  hasten- 
ed, as  we  have  said,  to  the  cliff.  Again  she  gazed  around, 
seaward,  with  a  most  searching  glance.  She  would  have 
pierced  the  limit  of  vision,  if  possible,  could  she  but  behold 
the  bark  which  bore  her  husband  homeward. 

Ah!  what  has  caught  her  eye,  far  in  the  distance?  A 
vessel,  before  hidden  from  view  by  a  projecting  rock,  is  just 
coming  in  sight  near  enough  for  the  telescope  to  present  her 


J  04:  THE    GLAD     THANKSGIVING     DA 

flag  to  tlie  eye.  She  gazed  upon  it.  Tliere  was  tiie  flag  slie 
]iad  so  loner  desired  to  see.  One  more  wish  caused  her  heart 
to  throb  with  deep  emotion.  She  gazes  still,  and  there, 
with  a  heart  of  thanksgiving,  she  beholds  the  verv  token  of 
her  husband's  safe  return  and  fond  remembrance. 

With  almost  lightning  speed  she  i)assed  from  the  high- 
lands to  her  father's  cottage,  and  bore  the  welcome  tidings 
that  suspense  was  over,  and  sorrow  need  be  theirs  no  longer. 
We  can  well  imagine  the  joy  with  which  such  intelligence 
was  received  by  all.  But  a  short  time  elapsed,  and  a  lamil- 
iar  form  was  seen  at  the  little  gate  before  the  house,  and  in 
a  moment  more  the  husband  and  wife  expressed  their  joy 
at  meeting,  in  a  long  embrace.  That  was  a  Glad  Tlimiks- 
giving  Day.  Mr.  Harford  informed  them  that  the  vessel 
had  been  driven  from  her  course  by  the  storm,  and  had 
been  detained  by  the  necessity  for  repairs  in  a  very  distant 
port,  whose  harbor  was  so  unfrequented,  that  there  was  no 
way  for  any  tidings  of  them  to  be  conveyed  to  their  homes, 
until  their  bark  was  in  a  proper  condition  to  bear  them 
safely  to  their  own  friends,  unheralded. 

Oh,  none  save  those  who  have  known  such  sorrow  of 
parting  and  agony  of  suspense,  can  appreciate  the  emotion 
of  o;ratitude  which  filled  the  hearts  of  the  reunited  husband 
and  wife  !  Thanksgivings  were  publicly  offered  in  the  vil- 
lage church,  on  that  day,  for  the  safe  return  of  the  long-lost 
voyagers,  whom  very  few  had  ever  expected  to  meet  again 
upon  the  shores  of  time.  And  long  with  William  and  Anna 
Harwood  lived  this  occasion  in  their  memories,  as  The  Glad 
Thanksgiving  Day. 


We  except  against  a  jndge  in  affairs  of  small  moment, 
but  are  content  that  our  reputation  and  glory  should  be 
dependent  on  the  decision  of  men  who  oppose  us,  through 
jealousy,  prejudice,  or  w^ant  of  discernment :  yet  it  is  merely 
to  engage  these  to  determine  in  om^  favor  that  we  often 
hazard  our  ease  and  lives. 


THE    THINKEE. 

BY    F.    W.    S. 


Of  all  the  conquests  made  by  man,  none  can  equal,  none 
can  bear  comparison  with  the  mighty  and  profound  achieve- 
ments of  THE  Thinker.  From  his  dome  of  thought  truths 
buried  deep  and  long  have  come,  at  the  sound  of  his  bidding, 
nigh,  and  feats  have  thus  been  accomplished,  which  the  close 
investigator  alone  could  fathom. 

It  is  the  Tldnker  who  has  scanned  the  hidden  mysteries 
that  reach  far  beyond  tlie  surface  of  things,  who  has  sounded 
away  into  the  immense  unknown,  and  brought  out  therefrom 
''  truths  sublime,  that  wake  to  perish,  never,"  those  secrets 
of  the  universe,  which  unravel  and  portray  the  nicer  and 
more  exquisite  skill  of  the  Great  Architect.  It  is  his  penb- 
tration  that  "  gives  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation  and  %, 
name,"  that  "finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running 
brooks,  sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing."  Strung 
with  a  delicacy  of  texture  fine  as  Olympian  dews,  the  varied 
atoms  of  matter  dilate  beneath  his  gaze,  and  particles  that 
go  to  make  up  the  sheen  of  things,  magnify  beneath  his 
tread.  Tlie  nook,  the  glade,  the  rock-bound  coast,  the 
mountain  peak,  and  the  cloud-capped  tower  furnish  him 
lofty  sentiments  for  contemplation ;  thus  he  quafi's  from  na- 
ture's fountain  pleasures  pure,  unsophisticated,  and  which 
never  cloy.  Tlie  lightning's  flash  and  the  thunder's  roar  are 
to  him,  not  the  fabled  monsters  of  the  olden  time,  but  simply 
the  natural  efi'ects  of  natural  causes,  which,  like  all  things 
in  the  material  world,  act  in  harmony.  The  cavern  and  the 
mighty  abyss  below,  he  brings  vividly  to  view,  examines  the 
geological  structure  and  compound  of  our  globe,  and  from 
out  its  strata  deeply  embedded  there,  he  gathers  facts  upon 
which  he  dwells  with  an  intensity  of  emotion,  and  a  capa- 
ciousness of  thought.  The  coral  beds  of  the  wide,  blue 
sea,  partaking  of  this  under-current,  upheave  from  their 
rocky  basis,  and  upward  tendhig,  and  tending  still,  their 
beauty  and  grandeur  are  too  well  fitted  to  his  refined  taste 


106  rilE     TIIINKEE. 

to  be  passed  listlessly  by,  and  liere  lie  expatiates  in  aston? 
ishment,  in  admiration,  and  in  awe. 

From  the  teeming  panoply  beneath,  to  the  canopy  above, 
reaching  away  into  the  illimitable  regions  of  space,  he  feasts 
Lis  own  enlivened  and  forever-expanding  capabilities,  till 
imbued  with  wondrous  and  high-wrought  conceptions,  he 
grasps  the  remote,  and  unfolds  from  out  their  cloister,  ob- 
jects strangely  vast,  and  immensely  complicated. 

He  even  essays  to  taste  of  angel's  food,  to  study  the  sci- 
ence of  God,  and  become  acquainted  w^ith  those  things  which 
celestial  intelligences  desire  to  investigate. 

ISTot  only  the  whole  broad  earth  is  beautiful,  but  the  great 
arcana  of  animate  and  inanimate  being  pour  forth  an  elo- 
quence that  far  surpasses  speech,  and  he  opens  the  volumes 
of  the  universe  and  reads  therein  in  characters  of  living 
light,  till  his  own  nature  becom.es  resplendent,  embellished 
with  those  tints  which  beautifv  and  adorn  that  inner  tern- 
pie,  thus  emitting  a  halo  of  brightness,  and  shedding  mel- 
lowed splendor  where  obscurity  has  vailed  the  finer  linea- 
ments that  are  scattered  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere, 
over  the  fair  face  of  creation,  and  which  proclaim, 

"  The  hand  tlr\t  made  us  is  Divine." 

The  range  of  the  thinker  is  far  from  being  circumscribed 
— far  from  being  trammeled  down  within  those  limits  which 
narrow,  and  cramp,  and  cloy,  and  fettering,  bind.  ISTo 
slavish  fears,  no  contracted  prejudices  warp  his  enthusiasm! 
Erect  and  commanding,  the  image  of  his  Maker,  he  stands 
unmoved  amid  the  confusion  of  elements,  borne  aloft  by  the 
nobler  and  the  higher,  he  sways  the  scepter  of  his  ow^n  uni- 
versal dominion  like  as  "  a  w^orkman  who  needeth  not  to  be 
ashamed."  Marh  him  !  Free  and  boundless  he  flits  upon 
the  wings  of  the  wind,  roams  at  pleasure  wheresoever  he 
will,  and  at  random. 

"  Lives  in  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent. 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small, 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all." 


TO   MY    MOTHEE    OX    HER   EIGHTY-IOURTH   BIRTH-DAY, 

BY    MRS.    M.    E.    DAVIS. 

Again,  my  dear  mother,  my  muse  takes  her  lay, 
It  is  fitting  with  pleasm-e  to  sing  of  this  day ; 
Fourscore  and  four  years  now,  dear  mother,  are  thine, 
Heaven  bless  thee,  and  keep  tliee,  in  all  coming  time. 

Now  my  thoughts  wander  back  to  the  years  that  are  fled, 
When  thy  breast  was  the  pillow  of  my  infant  head ; 
How  kindly  the  words  from  those  lips,  and  thy  smiles, 
Like  heaven's  own  sunlight,  each  soitow  beguiled. 

'Twas  my  mother  first  pointed  to  Heaven  the  way, 

And  my  tongue  could  but  lisp,  when  she  taught  me  to  pray; 

And  not  me  alone,  for  her  flock  was  not  small, 

And  she  tenderly  guided,  and  watched  o'er  us  all. 

In  gladness  or  sorrow,  in  pain  or  in  woe, 

Our  joys  were  thine  own,  at  our  tears  thine  would  flow, 

No  hand  like  a  mother's,  our  footsteps  could  guide, 

AVho  would  praise  us  when  right,  and  when  wayward  would  chide. 

'Tis  long,  very  long,  since  that  bosom  I  left. 

To  find  in  another,  a  pillow  of  rest ; 

Yet  in  joy  and  in  sorrow,  my  thoughts  ever  roara, 

To  thee,  my  fond  mother,  and  cLil  J  hood's  sweet  home. 

Thou  art  not  much  changed  these  many  long  years, 
Thine  eyes  are  not  dim,  and  thy  brow  is  still  fair, 
Though  thy  step  has  grown  slow,  and  thy  form  bent,  in  truth, 
Yet  thy  mind  is  still  blooming  in  freshness  of  youth. 

There's  a  sadness  comes  o'er  me,  and  tears  often  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  loved  who  are  gone  from  thee  now; 
But  one  of  our  number  is  at  the  old  home, 
Some  are  far,  far  away,  and  some  sleep  in  the  tomb. 

But  the  thought  gives  me  joy,  that  there's  peace  in  thy  sou], 
Not  many  more  waves  o'er  thy  bosom  shall  roll ; 
And  thy  faith  looks  away  from  the  night  of  the  totnb, 
To  a  land  where  the  morning  in  brightness  shall  come. 

A  man  of  wit  would  be  often  at  a  loss,  were  it  not  for  the 
companv  of  fools. 


THE    JOUKNEYINGS    OF    THE    WIND. 

BY    LILLA   LINWOOD. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  eveniug;  the  sun  was  just 
sinking  "behind  the  western  horizon,  and  its  lingeriiig  rays 
imparted  a  golden  tint  to  the  surrounding  scenery.  A  few 
fleecy  clouds  were  seen  straggling  in  the  blue  vault  above, 
resembling  wandering  lambs,  that  had  strayed  from  the 
shepherd's  fold.  The  light-winged  zephyrs  were  sporting 
over  the  fields,  scattering  the  fragrance  of  numerous  flowers. 

A  low  murmur  w^as  heard  in  distant  forests — the  sound 
aj^proached  nearer  and  increased.  It  was  old  Boreas,  pre- 
paring to  journey  to  the  eastern  countries.  The  leaves  flew 
quickly' from  his  presence,  at  his  rapid  approach.  The  tall- 
est trees  bowed  before  him,  while  those  that  refused  this 
mark  of  deference,  w^ere  torn  up  by  their  roots,  and  laid 
prostrate  on  the  earth. 

On  he  hastened  with  rapid  strides,  regardless  of  the  ruin 
that  marked  his  track.  A  blushing  rose  heard  the  sound, 
and  modestly  raised  her  head  to  see  the  disturber.  Struck 
with  her  beauty,  he  plucked  the  gentle  flower,  and  bore  it 
ofi"  in  his  arms,  but  soon  heedlessly  dropped  his  charge,  and 
left  it  to  wither  and  die. 

He  redoubled  his  speed,  and  every  thing  yielded  to  his 
force.  Man,  proud  man,  covered  his  face,  and  bowed  at  his 
approach.  But  he  heeded  him  not,  for  he  was  thinking  of 
those  distant  countries  where  he  had  enjoyed  many  a  merry 
festival,  in  sporting  with  the  gigantic  forests,  destroying  the 
most  lofty  trees  in  his  caprice,  and  often  leaving  the  fright- 
ened shrubs  unharmed. 

He  reached  a  magnificent  city  which  he  had  frequently 
visited,  and  whistled  with  scorn,  as  he  saw  the  huge  cover- 
ings the  inhabitants  had  erected,  to  protect  them  from  his 
fury ;  and  as  he  rushed  onward,  he  fiercely  shook  their  ten- 
ements, and  threatened  to  destroy  them  in  his  might. 

He  crossed  an  immense  desert,  and  as  he  passed,  carried 
before  him  vast  columns  of  dust  laughing  in  his  glee  as  he 


THE     JOURNETINGS     OF     THE     WIND.  109 

buried  tlie  proud  monuments  of  art  beneath  the  sands.  He 
sung  the  funeral  dirge  of  a  large  caravan  he  had  over- 
whelmed in  his  course,  for  he  had  left  none  alive  to  tell 
their  sad  fate.  He  reached  the  habitable  parts  of  the  globe, 
and  as  he  moved  through  the  cemeteries  of  the  dead,  mourn- 
fully moaning  around  their  lonely  dwellings,  he  thought  of 
the  hundreds  he  had  that  day  buried  far,/<:ir  away,  in  the 
Bandy  desert.  As  he  wept  for  their  loss,  the  gentle  showers 
restored  the  withered  herbage  to  its  former  freshness. 

On  he  hastened,  and  soon  reached  the  sea.  The  Wind 
lifted  his  voice  in  his  pride,  and  proclaimed  himself  an  uni- 
versal conqueror.  The  Sea,  unwilling  to  yield  to  his  power, 
growled  in  his  fury,  and  a  terrible  contest  commenced.  The 
Wind  howled,  the  Sea  roared,  but  neither  would  yield  the 
victory.  The  crested  waves  towered  high  above  the  land, 
then  dashed  against  the  rocks  with  such  force  as  to  make 
the  neighboring  hills  tremble  with  affright,  while  the  shores 
seemed  to  shrink  from  the  approaching  elements. 

The  fearful  sounds  reached  a  vessel  that  was  calmly  re- 
posing on  the  waters,  not  far  distant.  It  was  night,  and 
most  of  those  on  board  were  enjoying  a  refreshing  sleep, 
when  suddenly  the  terrific  sound  burst  upon  their  ears. 
They  started  from  their  slumbers,  and  rushed  to  the  deck. 
^Nearer  and  nearer  approached  the  combatants.  Soon  the 
storm  burst  upon  them  in  its  fury,  threatening  them  with 
instant  destruction.  Their  cries  of  distress,  for  a  moment, 
rose  above  the  voice  of  the  Wind.  Tliey  ran  madly  about, 
and  shrieked  for  help.  The  Storm-King  laughed  at  their 
misery,  and  death  only  seemed  to  be  theirs.  But  amid  this 
cry  of  agony.  One  still  slept  calmly,  as  if  there  was  no  dis- 
turbance without.  To  Him  they  cried  in  tones  of  agony, 
•'Master,  save,  or  we  perish!"  He  replied,  -'Why  are  ye 
fearful,  O  ye  of  little  faith?"  In  tones  of  authority  He 
rebuked  the  raging  elements,  and  in  a  moment  all  was  hush- 
ed as  death. 

A  low  voice  was  heard — "What  manner  of  man  is  this, 
for  He  commandeth  even  the  winds  and  seas,  and  they  obey 
Him  ?" 


LAMENT. 


"And  David  lamented  with  this  lamentation  over  Saul,  and  over  Jonathan,  hia  wm."- 
2  Samuel,  i.  17. 

MouR>',  Israel,  mourn!  thy  mighty  ones  are  fallen! 
Fill  up  with  sounds  of  weeping  all  the  plain — 
From  out  thy  camp  the  glory  is  departed — 
The  brave  of  Israel  on  the  hills  are  slain ! 

The  mighty  ones  are  fallen, 
The  brave  of  Israel  on  the  mountain  slain  I 

Forever  desolate,  oh,  dark  Gilboa! 
Barren  and  di'ear,  may  all  thy  hills  remain! 
The  shields  of  valiant  Saul  upon  thee  perished— 
Israel's  anointed  on  thy  mount  is  slain, 

The  mighty  ones  are  fallen, 
The  brave  of  Israel  on  Gilboa  slain  I 

Daughters  of  Israel,  weep  the  mighty  fallen  ! 
And  harp  and  timbrel  mute  as  death  remain ; 
Leave  your  white  flocks  and  pitchers  at  the  fountain, 
And  weep  in  dust  for  Israel's  valiant  slain  ! 

Weep  for  the  mighty  fallen. 
The  brave  of  Israel  on  the  mountain  slain  ! 

Sorely  my  spirit  mourns  for  thee,  my  brother — 
Thy  pure  affection  seeks  she  now  in  vain — 
That  true,  fond  heart,  so  linked  with  mine  together, 
Lies  cold  in  death,  mid  Gilboa's  slain, 

Amid  the  mighty  fallen. 
The  brave  of  Israel  on  Gilboa  slain. 


iNTREPiDnT  is  an  extraordinary  strength  of  sonl,  that 
renders  it  snperior  to  the  tronble,  disorder,  and  emotion 
which  the  appearance  of  danger  is  apt  to  excite.  By  this 
quality,  in  the  most  surprising  and  dreadful  accidents,  he- 
roes maintain  their  tranquillity,  and  preserve  tlie  free  use  of 
their  reason. 


FRIENDS. 

BY    ALBERT    TODD. 


In  our  pathway  through  this  vale  of  tears,  we  all  desire 
and  need  the  sympathy  and  companionship  oi  friends — not 
friends  in  words  only,  but  friends  in  deed.  It  is  not  in 
hours  of  pros]3erity  and  ease  tliat  we  most  need  the  assist- 
ance and  sympathy  of  others ;  but  it  is  when  storms  of  ad- 
versity hang  heavily  upon  the  mind,  and  poverty  and  afflic- 
tion weigh  down  the  soul;  then,  oh,  then,  words  of  comfort 
and  consolation  from  some  sympathizing  friend  will  have 
their  effect  like  water  upon  the  thirsty  ground.  A  treasure, 
indeed,  is  the  individual  who  w^ill  be  near  through  all  the 
changing  scenes  of  life,  and  offer  assistance  and  consolation 
when  the  mind  has  become  saddened  by  the  sorrows  and 
trials  of  earth. 

How  pleasant  might  be  our  pilgrimage  if  each  and  every 
one  V70uld  strive  to  benefit  and  assist  his  fellow,  and  live 
together  in  unity  and  brotherly  love.  How  cheerful  might 
be  made  the  journey  of  life,  if  we  would  interest  ourselves 
in  each  other's  welfare  and  prosperity.  But  how  do  we  see 
the  selfishness  of  human  nature  manifested.  While  we  are 
in  health,  and  in  the  full  tide  of  prosperity  and  enjoyment, 
our  friends  (and  they  are  then  numerous)  crowd  around  us, 
and  are  ever  ready  to  do  us  favors,  and  secure  our  friend- 
ship. TVe  are  then  courted,  flattered,  and  applauded.  But 
when  we  are  overtaken  by  misfortune — w^hen  sickness  and 
poverty  comes  upon  us,  where  are  our  friends  ?  They  loei^e, 
but  they  are  twt^  is  the  only  answer. 

"When  we  reflect  upon  the  shortness  of  human  life,  and 
the  uncertainty  of  our  stay  here,  it  may  be  well  for  us  to 
pause  and  consider  what  we  are,  and  what  relation  we  hold 
to  each  other,  and  the  duty  we  are  bound  to  perform  one 
toward  the  other.  "  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,"  is  the 
command  of  Him  who  was  the  friend  of  sinners.  It  may 
be  profitable  to  each  and  every  one  of  us  to  take  a  retro- 
spective view  of  our  past  lives,  and  bring  home  to  our 


112  FRIENDS. 

minds  tlie  question,  Have  we,  and  are  we  fullilllng  the 
connnands  of  our  Saviour  ?  Are  we  not  partial  ?  Have 
we  not  been  more  ready  to  encourage  and  assist  tlie  pros- 
perous, than  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  those  In  adverslt}^  ? 

AYe  are  but  the  creatures  of  a  day — our  bodies  are  but 
dust — and  the  time  is  soon  coming  when  we  shall  all  be 
brought  on  a  level.  The  rich  and  the  poor,  the  high  and 
the  low,  must  all  slumber  side  by  side  in  the  dust  from, 
whence  they  were  taken.  And  thinkest  thou  there  will  be 
any  distinction  heyoiid  the  confines  of  this  life  ?  and  will  the 
riches  that  a  man  may  possess  here  be  of  any  avail,  or  se- 
cure to  the  possessor  any  liigluT  seat  in  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven  ?  We  read  that  "  God  is  no  respecter  of  persons," 
and  that  He  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  nations,  etc.  Then 
let  us  associate  together  here  as  friends — help  those  who  are 
needy,  and  relieve  those  in  affliction. 

It  is  well  for  us  (when  the  world  has  withdrawn  her  sym- 
pathies, and  ceased  to  extend  the  hand  of  charity),  that 
there  is  One  to  whom  we  can  flee  for  comfort  and  consola- 
tion. It  is  well  that  there  is  one  Being  who  still  continues 
to  extend  the  hand  of  kindness,  and  administer  to  the  wants 
of  suffering  humanity.  Then  if  we  desire  such  a  friend — 
one  who  will  be  faithful,  and  whose  love  will  follow  us 
through  life,  let  us  choose  Him  who  suffered  and  died  that 
we  might  live  again. 


Those  are  mistaken  who  imagine  wit  and  judgment  to 
be  two  distinct  things.  Judgment  is  only  the  perfection  of 
wit,  which  penetrates  into  the  recesses  of  things,  observes 
all  that  merits  observation,  and  perceives  what  seems  im- 
perceptible. We  must  therefore  agree,  that  it  is  extensive 
wit  which  produces  all  the  effects  attributed  to  judgment. 

As  it  is  the  characteristic  of  great  wits  to  say  much  In  few 
words,  so  small  wits  seem  to  have  the  gift  of  speaking  much 
and  saying  nothing. 

Confidence  in  conversation  has  a  greater  share  than  wit. 


SCENE    ON    THE    HUDSON. 

"With  a  Steel  Engraving. 

I  thank  God,  I  -was  born  on  the  Iludgon.  I  fancy  I  can  trace  much  of  what  is  good  and 
pleasant  in  my  own  heterogeneous  compound,  to  my  early  companionship  with  this  glorious 
river.  In  the  warmth  of  my  early  enthusiasm  I  used  to  clothe  it  with  moral  attributes,  and,  as 
it  were,  give  it  a  soul.  I  gloried  in  its  simple,  quiet,  majestic,  epic  flow :  ever  straightforward, 
or,  if  forced  aside  for  once  by  opposing  mountains,  struggling  bravely  through  them,  and 
resuming  its  onward  march. — Geoffrey  Cbatox. 

Evert  voyager  on  the  Hudson — "  and  tlieir  name  is  le- 
gion'*— will  recognize  the  triithfuhiess  of  the  spirited  sketch 
presented  by  the  engraver.  Talk  of  the  Khine  and  the  Arno  ! 
Tell  ns  of  grandenr  and  sublimity !  of  Arcadian  vales  and 
peaceful  hamlets !  Go  up  the  Hudson,  if  you  love  rural 
beauty,  or  commercial  activity  ;  there  you  will  find  it.  You 
may  delight  in  the  rugged  sul3limity  of  dizzy  heights,  or  the 
peaceful  seclusion  of  fruitful  valleys.  You  may  seek  for 
simple  rustic  prosperity.  Here  a  thriving  village,  there  a 
productive  farm.  Gazing  now  on  a  lonely  nook,  seemingly 
untrod  by  human  foot,  then,  on  a  bustling  town. 

At  one  time  you  pass  a  quiet  vale,  scattered  with  farm- 
houses and  checkered  with  corn-fields  ;  anon  you  almost 
touch  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  vrhich  lifts  its  bold  front  in 
defiance  of  time  and  change.  But  while  you  look,  almost 
expecting  the  little  birchen  canoe,  ^rith  its  crew  of  half  naked 
warriors,  to  push  out  of  some  little  recess,  you  are  startled 
by  a  prolonged  and  terrific  shriek,  like  the  roar  of  an  infuri- 
ated v\nld  beast,  and  a  train  of  cars  come  rattling  along  the 
base  of  the  mountain,  and  you  perceive  an  eager  multitude 
are  whirling  past.  But  the  echoes  die  away  among  the  hills  ; 
and  you  dream  again,  fancying  it  was  a  huge  monster  roused 
from  his  lair — a  very  dragon  thundering  along,  hissing  defi- 
ance, breathing  fire  and  smoke,  and  shrieking  to  his  fellows. 

But  you  are  past  the  mountains  now,  and  a  scene  of  quiet 
loveliness  opens  upon  you ;  you  wonder  if  those  sheep  are 
always  grazing  there,  if  those  herds  of  cattle  have  any 
owners,  those  sleepy-looking  farm-houses  looked  just  so  in 
the  days  of  Washington .  And  those  very  old  sloops  with  their 
white,  flapping  sails,  do  they  move  away,  or  are  they  the  same 
which  were  anchored  there  in  the  time  of  our  grandfathers  ? 

7 


lis  SCENE     ON     THE     HUDSON. 

But  hero  comes  a  steamer — a  floating  city,  witli  its  hun- 
dreds of  human  beings.  Music  is  playing,  streamers  are 
floating  on  the  breeze.  Spirit  of  Fulton !  how  gallantly 
she  bears  down  upon  us.  Ilark  !  a  hurra  from  a  hundred 
throats,  a  waving  of  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  a  few  pleasant 
gibes,  and  she  is  gone.  Such  is  traveling  on  the  Hudson  * 
'and  as  you  pass  successively, 

"  Town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  gives  to  each  a  double  charm." 

From  the  time,  some  three  centuries  since,  when  the  hardy 
Dutch  navigator  sailed  past  the  swamj^y  island  of  Manhat- 
tan, and  adventurously  pushed  his  way  to  the  Tappan  Zee  in 
search  of  a  northwest  passage  to  China,  to  the  present,  the 
Hudson  has  had  a  charm  for  travelers  and  adventurers ; 
for  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque,  and  the  lovers  of  loco- 
motion. 

The  facetious  pen  of  Washington  Irving  has  given  a  clas- 
sic interest  to  every  part  of  this  noble  river.  The  school-boy 
making  his  first  trip  up  the  Hudson,  watches  for  Spiten 
Devil,  and  Sleep}^  Hollow,  Tappan  Zee,  and  Beam  Island, 
with  as  much  interest  as  the  pilgrim  to  Judea  visits  the 
scenes  mentioned  in  Holy  'Writ.  He  watches  impatiently  to 
catch  a  view  of  the  Dunder  Berg,  and  Antony's  Kose,  and 
fancies  he  can  locate  the  precise  spots  where  Eip  Yan  Win- 
kle met  with  his  adventures. 

Full  of  exciting  interest  and  peril  was  that  first  adven- 
turous voyage  of  discovery,  when  the  clumsy  little  craft 
boldly  pushed  beyond  the  Highlands,  in  order  to  explore 
the  terra  incognita  beyond.  And  when  they  brought  back 
news  of  a  goodly  land,  and  it  was  judged  best  to  take  pos- 
session of  this  fine  country  beyond  the  mountains,  it  required 
stout  hearts  to  occupy  the  little  trading  Fort  Aurania,  now 
the  site  of  Albanv.  It  was  like  beino^  banished  to  the  ^orth 
Pole.  People  then  made  greater  preparations  for  going  up 
this  mysterious  river,  than  are  now  deemed  necessary  for  a 
trip  to  California.  No  good  burgher  would  undertake  such 
an  enterprise  without  making  his  will  and  settling  his  tem- 
poral afl['airs. 


SCENE     ON     THE     HUDSON.  119 

1^0  wonder  the  Red  men,  the  hereditary  lords  of  this  wide 
domain,  looked  with  jealous  eyes  on  the  intruders.  No 
wonder  they  retreated  little  by  little,  step  by  step,  from 
hunting  and  fishing  grounds  so  ample  and  so  productive. 
Who  can  be  surprised  that  with  sawage  instinct  they  resort- 
ed to  all  the  cunning  and  strategy  of  untutored  minds,  to 
rid  themselves  of  the  sti'ange  race  which  had  come  to  crowd 
them  from  such  an  inheritance  ?  The  Red  man  has  passed 
away,  the  wild  deer  have  followed,  a  new  race  and  a  new 
order  of  things  have  succeeded ;  but  every  hill  has  its  le- 
gends, and  every  stream  its  wild  traditions. 

But  there  have  been  events  within  the  memory  of  us  all, 
sufficient  to  give  a  tender  and  painful  interest  to  many  a 
spot  on  the  grand  old  river,  not  easily  forgotten.  Many  still 
remember  the  catastrophe  of  the  ill-fated  Swallow,  although 
several  years  since.  In  an  unexpected  moment  desolation 
and  mourning  were  carried  into  many  before  happy  fami- 
lies. But  within  a  twelvemonth  there  have  been  enough  of 
horror,  and  disaster,  and  death,  on  this  smiling  river,  to 
harrow  up  the  most  stony  heart.  Youth  and  old  age,  in- 
fancy and  manhood,  the  honored  and  the  wealthy,  the 
youthful  and  the  gifted,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  all 
.helped  to  swell  that  terrible  holocaust  offered  to  Mammon. 

But  there  are  classic  memories  as  well  as  sorrowful  ones, 
in  connection  with  the  Hudson,  Many  a  bard,  many  an 
orator  and  statesman,  have  drawn  inspiration  from  its  beau- 
tiful scenery,  and  pilgrims  from  the  Old  World  are  begin- 
ning to  seek  its  localities,  as  we  visit  the  "  shrines  of  the 
poets,"  and  the  homes  of  world-renowned  great  men. 

•'  An  earthly  Paradise!  a  gorgeous  land  ! 
Where  giant  mountains  as  th}^  guardians  stand, 
Lifting  their  sunlit  heads  to  yonder  sky, 
Where  fairy  clouds  in  softest  beauty  lie. 
Land  of  the  free !  than  wliich  the  rolling  sun 
A  fairer,  lovelier  scene,  ne'er  looked  upon. 
Ne'er  flung  his  beams  to  weljo:.;o  Liigliter  flowers, 
Than  scent  with  fragrance  all  thy  summer  bowers. 
Bright  skies  above  witli  richest  colors  glow, 
And  hang  in  splendor  o'er  thy  vales  below. 
Bright  scenes  below  in  richest  prospect  rise. 
Lit  up  with  radiance  from  those  smiling  skies." 


120  THE     MTJRMTTEING     SHELL. 


THE  MUSMURING  SHELL. 

BY    FINLEY    JOHNSON. 

The  whispers  sweet  of  the  murmuring  shell, 

The  secrets  of  ocean  to  us  shall  tell; 

And  cause  our  hearts  to  throb  with  fear, 

As  sad  and  wonderful  things  we  hear. 

It  whispei-s  us  of  the  treasures  bright, 

Of  the  rubies,  and  gems,  concealed  from  sight; 

Hid  deep  in  ocean's  coral  caves, 

Beneath  the  rolling  and  billowy  waves ; 

And  also  of  birds  which  skim  o'er  the  deep, 

Where  mermaids  and  syrens  calmly  sleep. 

It  whispers  us  of  tempestuous  nights, 
Of  minute  guns,  and  of  beacon  lights; 
Of  billows  which  rise  to  the  darkened  sky. 
And  which  greet  the  sailor's  anxious  eye; 
Of  the  thunder's  roar,  and  the  lightning's  flash, 
And  the  mighty  waves  as  on  they  dash ; 
Of  the  blackened  foam,  and  the  horrid  glare, 
And  the  shrieking  voices  of  gaunt  despair; 
All  these,  and  more,  the  whisperings  tell. 
Which  cometh  forth  from  the  murmuring  shell. 

Those  whispers  speak  of  the  hidden  rocks, 
Of  the  unexpected  and  fearful  shocks, 
Of  the  mother's  tears,  and  the  widow's  cry. 
And  the  brother's  grief,  and  the  sister's  sigh ; 
Of  the  noble  craft  which  started  with  pride. 
Now  rotting  beneath  the  treacherous  tide; 
Of  those  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  caves. 
Washed  by  the  mighty  and  merciless  waves; 
All  these,  and  more,  the  whisperings  tell, 
Which  cometh  forth  from  the  murmuring  shell. 


The  greatest  of  all  cunning  is,  to  seem  blind  to  the  snares 
wliich  we  know  to  be  laid  for  ns.  Men  are  never  so  easily 
deceived  as  while  they  are  endeavoring  to  deceive  others. 


HOME.  121 


H  0  ME. 

"  IIoiiE,  sweet  home !"  what  endearino;  recollections  eu- 
circle  this  most  attractive  word !  Who  can  look  back  upon 
the  home  of  his  childhood  without  exciting  many  a  fond  re- 
membrance? How  many  familiar  faces,  how  many  kind 
words,  how  many  pleasant  hours  -start  up  as  so  many  living 
images  when  the  word  home  falls  upon  the  ear?  But  he 
who  has  left  the  home  of  his  childhood,  and  formed  for  him- 
self a  home — he  who  has  taken  the  chosen  of  his  heart,  and 
gathered  about  him  a  pleasant  family,  is  truly  the  happiest 
of  the  happy,  as  far  as  earthly  good  can  convey  happiness. 
"What  are  the  jars  and  excitements  of  the  political  world  to 
him  when  retired  within  the  bosom  of  his  own  family  ? 

How  cheerfully  will  the  merchant  bear  the  trials  and  per- 
plexities of  the  counting-room ;  the  mechanic,  the  din  and 
coniinement  of  the  workshop  ;  the  farmer,  the  toils  and  labors 
of  the  day,  if  he  feels  that  at  night  a  happy  home  and  cheer- 
ful hearts  await  his  retm*n.  But  that  all  family  circles  are 
not  thus  happy  is  to  be  regretted.  Tliis  must  arise  from  in- 
discretion or  mismanagement.  The  happiness  of  the  family 
depends  not  upon  one  of  its  members  only,  but  upon  all.  It 
is  a  reciprocal  obligation,  each  one  bearing  a  share,  but  the 
responsibility  falls  chiefly  upon  its  united  guardians.  A 
band  of  love  should  ever  unite  a  family  together.  This  is 
a  silken  cord,  easily  rent  asunder,  especially  when  first 
formed.  How  often  has  it  been  rudely  severed  by  the  hand 
of  passion,  or  jealousy,  or  even  by  mere  thoughtlessness, 
when,  had  it  been  duly  cherished,  it  might  have  strength- 
ened till  it  would  have  been  like  a  threefold  cord,  not  easily 
broken. 

Life  is  composed  of  little  things.  It  is  especially  so  in 
domestic  life.  Trifles,  in  themselves  of  little  importance, 
form  the  life  and  happiness  of  the  family  circle.  Little  at- 
tentions, a  little  patience,  prudence,  forbearance,  a  disposi- 
tion to  suffer  rather  than  do  wrong,  will  eventually  form  a 
spirit  of  union,  love,  and  happiness  within  any  family.  But 
if  these  trifles  be  neglected,  if,  instead  of  pleasant  smiles  and 


122  noME. 

kind  attentions,  there  be  want  of  sympatliy  and  cold  indif- 
ference ;  instead  of  patient  forbearance  with  the  failings  to 
whicli  all  are  liable,  there  be  fretfulness  and  lault-findino- — 
in  short,  if  there  be  no  trnits  of  pure  and  disinterested  love, 
there  can  be  no  true  peace,  no  happiness  of  union. 

If  tlie  husband  wish  for  a  liappy  home,  vrhere  he  can  re- 
lax his  mind  and  repose  his  body,  let  him  consider  her  who 
superintends  that  home.  Let  liim  think  of  the  trials,  the 
vexations,  the  anxieties  which  she  is  daily  called  to  encoun- 
ter. They  may  seem  insignificant  to  him,  but  nevertheless 
they  are  of  as  much  importance  to  her  as  those  of  a  more 
public  nature  are  to  him  ;  therefore  let  him  pleasantly  sym- 
patliize  with  her  in  all  her  petty  cares.  Likewise,  if  the 
wife  would  live  happily  witliin  tlie  domestic  circle,  let  her 
strive  to  perform  cheerfully  those  duties  devolving  upon 
her ;  although  her  life  may  be  one  continual  routine  of  small 
acts,  still  she  may  be  performing  duties  which  may  tend  to 
convey  happiness  far  more  than  those  whom  the  world  "de- 
lighteth  to  honor."  Let  her  strive  to  make  the  home  of  her 
husband  a  pleasant  home,  be  interested  in  his  welfare,  invite 
his  confidence,  share  his  sorrows,  and  though  he  may  be 
called  to  buffet  with  the  storms  of  life,  still  let  him  ever  find 
a  quiet  retreat  within  the  circle  of  his  own  chosen  home. 
If  thus  both  fulfill  the  duties  devolving  upon  them,  what 
can  be  wanting  to  make  a  happy  home  ?  Nothing,  save  the 
true  spirit  of  religion  instilled  within  their  hearts.  Tliis  will 
prepare  them  not  only  to  perform  the  above  duties,  but  all 
others  that  insure  happiness  in  this  life  and  in  that  which  is 
to  come. 


In  the  heart  of  man  there  is  a  perpetual  succession  of  i\w 
passions ;  so  that  the  destruction  of  one  is  almost  always 
the  production  of  another. 

IS'ot withstanding  all  the  care  we  take  to  conceal  our  pas- 
sions under  the  pretenses  of  religion  and  honor,  they  still 
appear  through  such  flimsy  vails. 


AMELIA'S     CHRISTMAS     GIFT.  123 


THE  FAmy'S  ADVICE;    OR,  AMELIA'S  CHRISTMAS  GUT. 

BY    MRS.    J.    H.    HANAFORD. 

"Did  you  ever  hear 
Of  tlie  frolic  fniries,  dear? 
They're  a  little  blessed  race, 
Peeping  up  in  Fancy's  face  ; 
In  the  valley,  on  the  hill, 
By  the  fountain  and  the  rill, 
Lauo-hins  out  between  the  leaves, 
Thartheloving  summer  weaves.  "-Mes.  Osgood. 

"  Merky  Cheistmas"  came  again.  Over  all  the  earth  seemed 
spread  a  carpet  of  white,  as  beautiful  as  cool,  yet  remuulmg 
one  that  winter,  with  bleak  winds  and  bitter  frosts   again 
grasped  the  scepter  of  dominion,  and,  for  a  season,  at  least, 
would  hold  indisputable  sway.    Yet,  witlnn  doors  there  was 
so  much  additional  cheerfulness,  so  many  comfor  s  and  de- 
lights which  summer  never  affords,  the  bright,ly-blazing  fire, 
the  brilliant  light  streaming  through  closed  windows  for  the 
lono-  winter  evenings,  and  the  opportunity  which  those  very 
evenino-s  afforded  for  social  converse  and  home  enjoyments, 
that  one  could  hardly  regret,  after  all,  that  the  season  of  the 
holidays  was  once  more  arrived.  _  _  . 

In  the  family  of  l^h:  Eobinson  there  was  great  rejoicing, 
especially  ammig  the  younger  portion,  because  Christmas 
was  at  hand,  the  season  of  festivity,  and  interchange  of 
friendship's  tokens.     One  of  the  daughters  Amelia,  was  un- 
iisually  anxious  for  Christmas  to  arrive,  and  earnestly  desired 
that  although  the  ground  might  be  white  with  snow,  the  sky 
above  might  be  blue  as  at  midsummer,  and  as  unclouded  as 
an  infant's  smile.     She  was   continually  inqumng  of  her 
parents  and  elder  sisters,  if  they  thought  all  things  would 
be  favorable  for  the  arrival  of  their  annual  visitors,  and 
more  than  once  was  seen  with  frowning  brow  and  tearful 
eyes  as  she  declared,  fretfully,  that  she  "hoped,  for  once  m 
the  wa  V,  it  would  be  a  pleasant  Christmas-day."     Her  father 
chided'and  her  mother  coaxed,  but  in  vain  ;  Amelia  seemed 
determined  to  welcome  Christmas  with  a  frown,  unless  it 
came  clothed  as  she  might  desire,  with  sunslune  and  w-inter 
loveliness.     Her  sisters  toiled   cheerfully  m  public,   oi   m 


124:  Amelia's    chkistmas    gift. 

secret,  at  tlie  preparation  of  tlie  Christmas  gifts  they  in 
tended  to  bestow,  and  Amelia  labored,  too,  with  industry 
and  perseverance,  but,  alas !  not  with  cheerfulness  and  good- 
nature.    Her  parents  perceived  this,  for  good  parents  are 
ever  on  the  alert  to  discern  the  various  traits  in  the  charac- 
ters of  their  children,  in  order  that  they  may  more  successfully 
combat  the  evil,  and  cherish  the  good  ones.     Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Eobinson  held  frequent  consultations  as  to  the  best  method 
of  overcomiug  the  ill-nature  of  their  dear  child,  and  attempted 
various  plans  for  her  benefit,  but  as  yet  the  good  seed  seemed 
sown  on  stony  ground.     It  brought  forth  no  fruit,  while  the 
thorns  of  fretfulness  seemed  abundant  and  luxuriant,  and  its 
fruit  was  too  often  ill-natured  words  and  discontented  looks. 
Christmas-eve  arrived,  and,  as  was  customary  with  the 
younger  children,  each  bed-post  was  hung  with  one  of  each 
of  the  sleeper's  little  stockings.     The  parents  had  requested 
of  Amelia  to  hang  hers  also,  although  the  year  previous  she 
had  omitted  doing  so,  deeming  herself  too  old  for  such  a 
childish  deed.     The  object  of  her  parents  was  to  awaken 
her  curiosity  as  to  what  was  their  design  in  making  such  a 
request,  and  their  prayers  arose  that  their  new^  eflbrt  might 
prove  successful  for  her  well-being.     They  wished  to  strike 
another  blow  at  the  root  of  her  ill-naturedness,  ere  the  year 
was  expired,  and  they  hoped  that  thus,  wdth  the  blessing  of 
God,  they  might  overcome  it. 

Amelia  sought  repose  that  evening,  with  the  determina- 
tion to  rise  very  early,  and  discover  the  cause  of  her  parent's 
request.  She  prepared  her  lamp,  that  it  might  easily  be 
lighted,  if  she  awoke  before  daybreak,  and  then,  with  a  fret- 
ful expression  of  regret  at  seeing  dark,  heavy  clouds  along 
the  western  horizon — precursors  of  a  storm  to  follow  speedily 
— she  sought  repose  and  forgetfulness  in  sleep. 

Morning  came — "Merry  Christmas"  morning — and  Amelia 
found  that,  like  many  others,  having  something  unusual  upon 
her  mind  to  lead  her  to  desire  to  wake  early,  she  readily  awoke 
in  time  to  see  the  morning  star  fade,  and  the  eastern  sky  grow 
brighter ;  but,  alas  !  clouds  obscured  the  light  of  the  star,  and 
prevented  the  early  streaks  of  red  in  the  eastern  horizon. 
Impatience,  fretfulness,  and  discontent  seemed  concentrated 


AMELIA    S     CHRISTMAS     GIFT.  125 

ft 

in  the  exclamation  with  which  she  lowered  her  curtain,  after 
having  discovered  the  unpleasant  facts,  "There,  I  knew  it 
would  be  stormy,  just  because  I  wanted  it  pleasant!  Oh 
dear !" 

Just  then  she  remembered  her  Christmas  gifts,  and  hastened 
to  see  what  they  were.  Amelia  slept  in  a  little  chamber  with 
one  other  and  older  sister,  who  was  still  asleep,  and  there 
was  no  one,  therefore,  to  disturb  her  reflections  as  she  drew 
article  after  article  from  the  distended  and  highly-honored 
hose.  There  was  a  pin-cushion  from  one  sister,  a  needle-book 
from  another,  a  thimble  from  "  mamma,"  nuts  and  fruit  from 
the  younger  children,  who  she  knew  had  been  saving  their 
pennies  for  Christmas,  and  whose  gifts  for  each  other  had 
been  deposited,  in  great  secrecy,  with  "mamma,"  who  un- 
dertook to  distribute  them  among  the  suspended  hose. 

The  custom  of  thus  preparing  for  "  Kriss  Kringle,"  or  "  St. 
Nicholas,"  or  "  Santa  Clans,"  is  too  well  known  to  require 
much  explanation.  The  best  present,  in  Amelia's  view,  was 
a  little  gilt-edged,  prettily-bound  volume,  from  "papa,"  and 
with  joy  she  saw  that  it  was  a  story-book.  She  was  very 
fond  of  reading,  and  few  children  of  the  present  day  better 
loved  pleasant  and  interesting  stories.  The  first  story,  too, 
bore  the  magic  title  of  "  The  Fairy's  Advice."  By  the  light 
of  her  lamp  she  began  to  read  it,  having  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  throw  a  shawl  around  herself,  as  she  sat  in  bed,  with 
the  lamp  on  a  stand  at  her  side.  Still  her  sister  slept  on, 
and,  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  the  story,  she  forgot  that  it 
was  Christmas  morning,  and,  better  still,  she  forgot  to  feel 
unhappy  because  the  weather  was  opposite  to  her  inclina- 
tion. It  is  ever  w^ell,  w^hen  circumstances  are  adverse,  to 
preoccupy  our  minds  with  something  else,  that,  having 
another  object,  the  attention  maybe  drawn  from  unpleasant 
occurrences,  and  our  hearts  be  the  happier  for  the  diversion. 

Perhaps  the  younger  members  of  the  Family  Ciecle  will 
like  to  know  what  kind  of  a  storv  that  could  be  which  could 
so  attract  the  attention  of  the  disappointed  little  maiden. 
It  was  of  a  young  miss,  who  anxiously  desired  the  love  of 
her  companions  and  friends,  and  was  surprised,  and  often 
unhappy,  on  perceiving  that  her  society  was  neither  valued 


12G  Amelia's    Christmas    gi/t. 

« 

nor  sought  by  thcTn.  The  reason  was,  tliat  her  peevislmosg 
and  fretfulncss  were  too  often  like  a  clond  darkening  tlie  sun- 
shine of  their  innocent  enjoyments,  but  Lilian,  the  young 
miss,  did  not  perceive  it. 

One  day  she  was  strolling  in  a  grove,  lonely  and  sad.  Her 
companions  had  on  that  occasion  shown  a  marked  dislike  of 
her  society,  and  she  left  them  in  no  very  pleasant  mood,  and 
sought  in  solitude  to  solace  her  wounded  spirit.  As  she 
walked  along,  reflecting  on  her  unhappy  condition,  she  came 
to  a  wide-spreading  oak,  whose  leafy  shade  was  grateful, 
and  she  resolved  to  refresh  herself  by  resting  for  a  while 
upon  a  large  flat  rock  which  lay  beneath  it. 

As  she  sat  there,  busily  engaged  in  musing  upon  the  past, 
she  heard  a  tinkling  as  of  tiny  bells,  and  looking  toward 
the  place  whence  the  merry  sound  proceeded,  she  espied  a 
laughing  little  itiiry.  At  the  sight  of  her  rosy  cheeks  and 
dimpling  smiles,  Lilian  felt  like  smiling  herself ;  and  before 
many  moments  had  elapsed,  she  felt  that  all  her  troubles 
had  vanished  like  mist  before  the  sun,  and  her  heart  was  as 
light  and  happy  as  ever. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  were  the  first  words  of 
the  fairy.     "  Why  are  you  here  alone  ?" 

"  Alas  !"  replied  Lilian,  "  my  companions  do  not  love  me, 
and  would  neither  come  with  me,  nor  let  me  remain  peace- 
fully with  them.  Their  conduct  makes  me  feel  very  unhappy." 

"  Why  do  they  not  love  you?"  asked  the  fairy.  "Are 
you  sure  that  you  love  them,  and  really  desire  their  love  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  answered  Lilian  ;  "  I  do  not  love  to  i^lay 
alone,  and  I  like  to  have  them  with  me,  because  it  is  pleas- 
anter.  I  think  I  love  them,  and  I  know  I  wish  they  loved 
me  as  they  love  Ellen  Somers." 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  reason  that  Ellen  Somers 
is  so  dearly  loved  ?"  inquired  the  fairy. 

"  Ko,"  replied  Lilian,  with  a  look  of  surpiise  that  there 
should  be  any  reason. 

"Well,"  added  her  ftiiry  friend,  "let  me  give  you  some 
advice,  and  perhaps  you  may  be  as  well  beloved,  if  you 
follow  it,  as  Ellen  Somers,  or  any  other  amiable,  lovely  per- 
Bor.     I  think,  Lilian,  that  you  are  rather  selfish." 


Amelia's    Christmas    gift.  127 

Lilian  started,  surprised  at  tlie  disagreeable  remark  ;  but 
it  was  uttered  bj  a  fairy,  who,  we  read,  are  privileged  per- 
sons, and  can  say  what  they  please  ;  so  she  listened*  in 
silence. 

"  You  are  selfish,  Lilian ;  for  you  wish  your  companions 
to  love  you  only  that  you  may  be  more  happy.  You  think 
if  they  loved  you,  they  would  play  more  with  you,  make  you 
many  presents,  and  praise  you  very  highly.  Now,  this  is 
not  just  the  right  feeling  for  you  to  indulge.  You  sliould 
love  them  because  it  is  right,  and  seek  their  love  mostly 
because  thus  you  vrill  add  to  their  happiness.  This  is  the 
best  way  to  secure  your  own.  This  is  the  great  secret  of 
obtaining  love.  '  Do  to  others  as  you  vjould  have  them  do  to 
you.  Love  others^  and  they  will  love  you.  Try  to  rnal^e  tJuni 
ha^)2jy^  and  you  will  TnaJce  yourself  happy  also.''  " 

At  that  moment  a  loud  shout  was  heard,  and  the  fairy 
vanished.  Lilian  heard  the  voices  of  her  companions,  and 
perceived  that  the  fairy-visit  was  only  in  a  dream.  Yet  the 
words  of  the  dream-fairy  lingered  in  her  memory  for  a  long, 
long  while.  She  arose  from  her  embowered  rock,  and 
greeted  her  companions  with  a  smile.  From  that  day,  a 
change  was  perceptible  in  Lilian.  She  endeavored  to  heed 
the  fairy's  advice,  and  ere  long  she  was  as  well  beloved  as 
Ellen  Sorners,  and  as  happy  as  she  had  before  been  miser- 
able. 

By  the  time  Amelia  had  finished  the  story,  of  which  I  have 
only  given  an  abstract,  the  cheerful  voices  of  her  younger 
brothers  and  sisters  were  sounding  in  the  hall,  ''  A  merry 
Christmas  !     A  merry  Christmas  !" 

Her  sister  awoke,  and  both  were  soon  prepared  to  assem- 
ble with  the  rest  of  the  family.  Amelia's  sister  had  noticed 
the  unpleasantness  of  the  weather,  and  was  surprised  that 
Amelia  was  not,  as  usual,  fretting  and  scolding  about  her 
disappointment.  Instead  of  that,  she  seemed  cheerful,  though 
a  little  serious,  as  if  thoughtful.  Li  fact,  the  advice  of 
Lilian's  fairy  seemed  to  be  just  what  Amelia  needed,  and  she 
felt  its  force.  On  the  silence  of  that  Christmas  morning, 
while  reading  in  the  gift  of  her  kind  father,  Amelia's  heart 
was  touched  by  that  Divine  Spirit  which  induces  penitence, 


128  Amelia's    Christmas    gift. 

and  leads  to  pardon.  She  resolved  to  be  recreant  to  duty  no 
longer,  and  by  loving  her  parents,  and  brotliers  and  sisters, 
she  hoj^ed  to  become  more  worthy  of  their  love.  She  re- 
solved to  exliibit  her  love  to  them  by  a  kind  and  affectionate 
manner,  by  being  ever  ready  to  assist  them,  and  do  them 
good,  as  far  as  was  in  her  power,  and,  by  abstaining  from 
fretfulness  and  discontent,  to  display  her  gratitude  to  God, 
and  to  them,  for  every  blessing  and  kindness. 

These  things  she  was  enabled  to  do.  The  family  were  at 
first  surprised  at  the  change,  but  surprise  was  soon  changed 
to  joy.  Scarcely  any  evil  is  so  much  to  be  deplored  in  a 
family  circle  as  fretfulness  and  discontent,  and  many  a 
Christmas  has  been  far  from  "  merry"  because  a  frowning 
brow  and  sin-clouded  spirit  forbade  the  gushing  forth  of  the 
glad  fountains  of  hope  and  peace. 

Such  a  fretful  state  of  feeling  makes  its  possessor  misera- 
ble, and,  of  course,  affects  his  moral  influence.  Prayer  and 
earnest  effort  are  the  means  to  overcome  such  a  state  of  feel- 
ing, and  those  who  heed  the  "Fairy's  Advice,"  as  Amelia 
did,  will  find  Amelia's  great  reward — the  approval  of  their 
friends,  their  conscience,  and  their  God — while  around  them 
will  spring  luxuriantly  the  beautiful  and  fragrant  flowers  of 
delight.  Such  23ersons  will  ever,  unless  the  providence  of 
God  shall  interpose  some  barrier,  like  sickness  or  death,  sur- 
mount every  obstacle,  and  at  home  or  abroad,  on  the  land 
or  far  away  upon  the  billowy  deep,  in  a  Christian  country 
or  on  a  heathen  shore,  will  hail  the  return  of  the  day  on 
which  we  celebrate  our  Lord's  nativity,  and  will  enjoy,  as 
we  hope  the  reader  will,  "  a  merry  Christmas !" 


Pitt  is  a  sense  of  our  own  misfortunes  in  those  of  another 
man :  it  is  a  sort  of  foresight  of  the  disasters  that  may  befall 
ourselves.  We  assist  others,  in  order  that  they  may  assist  us 
on  like  occasions ;  so  that  the  services  w^e  offer  to  the  un- 
fortunate are  in  reality  so  many  anticipated  kindnesses  to 
ourselves. 


TO     MY     FLUTE.  129 


TO   MY  FLUTE. 

BY      WILLIAai      B.      HOVKY 

Come,  let  us  while  away  an  hour, 
My  gay  and  sweet-toned  flute, 

Beneath  the  ivy's  shady  bower, 
Where  none  will  e'er  intrude. 

Come,  let  thy  gnj,  sweet  melody 

Drive  all  my  cares  away ; 
For  with  thy  lovely  harmony 

No  ennui  can  stay. 

Life  would  be  dull  without  thee. 

At  times,  v/hcn  joy  has  fled  ; 
And  not  a  beam  of  gayety 

Its  living  rays  doth  shed. 

And  as  thy  tunes  float  on  the  breeze 
Float  with  them  every  care  ; 

No  thought,  no  feeling,  but  to  please. 
With  thee,  can  be  my  share. 

Then  come,  and  while  away  the  hour, 
That  finds  no  joy  elsewhere  ; 

But  in  the  green  and  shady  bower, 
Where,  with  thee,  is  no  care 


It  is  a  mistake  to  imagine,  that  only  the  violent  passions, 
Buch  as  ambition  and  love,  can  triumph  over  the  rest.  Idle- 
ness, languid  as  she  is,  often  masters  them  all;  she,  indeed, 
influences  all  our  designs  and  actions,  and  insensibly  con- 
sumes and  destroys  both  passions  and  virtues. 

Intrepidity  is  an  extraordinary  strength  of  soul,  that  rend- 
ers it  superior  to  the  trouble,  disorder,  and  emotion  which 
the  appearance  of  danger  is  apt  to  excite.  By  this  quality, 
in  the  most  surprising  and  dreadful  accidents,  heroes  main- 
tain their  tranquillity,  and  preserve  the  free  use  of  their  rea- 
Bon. 


130  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 


FEMALE  EDUCATION. 


13Y    NELSON    SIZER. 


"  A  DissERTATOx  Oil  '  Woman's  Eights,'  "  exclaim  my  fair 
readers,  ''  that  threadbare  theme  ;  I  wonder  if  he  will  main- 
tain tlio  propriety  of  extending  to  woman  the  elective  fran- 
chise, and  tlie  offices  of  judge  and  president,  and  does  he 
fav(.r  the  '  Bloomer  Costume.'  " 

We  have  no  special  intention  to  discuss  any  of  these  topics, 
hut  to  call  attention  to  a  subject  far  more  important — one 
on  \vhich,  we  think,  not  only  the  rights  of  woman,  abstract- 
ly considered,  hinge,  but  also  her  happiness.  It  were  vain 
to  give  a  man  the  "right"  to  fell  the  forest  or  to  till  the  soil, 
if  he  have  not  the  means  to  procure,  or  be  destitute  of  know- 
ledge respecting  the  use  of,  the  ax  and  the  plow.  We  accord 
rights,  t.'  cliildren  no  faster  than  they  become  developed  and 
educated,  and  when  thus  develojDcd  and  properly  educated, 
their  riglits  flow  naturally  into  their  possession. 

If  the  education  of  Vv^oman  were  not  constrained  and  arti- 
ficial, she  would  stand  forth  in  all  the  plenitude  of  her  rights, 
i])dividuaiized  and  free;  not  isolated  in  her  position,  but  a 
concordant  social  necessity,  like  one  of  the  strings  in  a  well- 
tuned  luirp.  As  she  is  now  educated,  her  freedom  and  her 
careei"  resemble  far  more  the  dead  level  of  a  canal,  the  mo- 
notony of  which  is  relieved  only  by  well-adjusted  and  care- 
fully operated  locks,  than  the  sweeping  river  that  glides 
freely  along  its  wooded  shores  or  flowery  banks,  roaring  at 
will  over  ctiscades  at  the  mountain's  base,  dancing  onward  in 
the  sunlight,  or  sleeping  in  beauty  under  the  placid  beams 
of  the  harvest  moon.  The  oak  can  not  mature  to  fair  pro- 
portions and  native  grandeur  in  a  conservatory  flower-pot, 
nor  ca.i  female  education  be  worthv  the  name  while  her 
physical  and  mental  nature  is  cramped  to  the  delicate  and 
fastidious  proportions  ordinarily  awarded  to  it. 

First,  then,  the  body  needs  education,  for  the  want  of 
which  phvsical  and  mental  ills  innumerable  exist.     We  shaU 


FEMALE     EDUCATIOX.  131 

confine  our  remarks,  not  so  miicli  to  tlie  proper  nourisliment 
of  the  body,  as  to  other  and  more  neglected  laws  of  regimen, 
including  air,  exercise,  and  useful  employment. 

We  may  incur  the  displeasure  of  some  fair  reader  hy  the 
remark  that  a  rich  diet,  with  tea  and  coffee,  are  doing  de- 
structive work  on  the  health  of  woman.  It  is  no  small  item 
in  education  to  regulate  the  appetite  and  dietetic  habits  of 
the  young,  that  the  highest  order  of  health  may  be  secured, 
and'^that  dyspepsia  from  rich,  stimulating,  and  concentrated 
food,  and  shattered  nerves,  from  the  effects  of  narcotics,  may 
be  avoided. 

Another,  and,  at  the  present  day,  a  very  much  neglected 
branch  of  female  education,  is,  those  habits  of  exercise  ne- 
cessary to  physical  development.  Why  is  it  that  our  girls 
are  as  nimble  of  foot,  as  ample  in  breath,  as  capable  of  en- 
during fatigue,  and  as  fond  of  romping  over  hill  and  plain 
as  boys  of  equal  age,  if  nature  has  made  such  vast  differences 
in  their  physical  capabilities  and  taste  for  such  exercises  as 
we  see  a  few  years  later  in  life  ?  In  present  fashionable  so- 
ciety, a  girl,  as  she  approaches  womanhood,  is  expected  to 
lay  aside  all  vigorous  physical  effort,  to  order  a  carriage  if 
she  would  go  half-a-mile,  to  walk  in  a  restrained,  mincing 
manner,  with  her  arms  and  hands  motionless,  to  be  dressed 
in  such  a  way  as  to  cramp  the  lungs  and  other  vital  organs, 
and  to  restrain  the  free  action  of  the  muscles  of  the  entire 
trunk.  She  is  also  expected  to  avoid  every  thing  in  the  way 
of  industrv,  that  will  in  the  least  harden  the  hands  and  the 
muscles,  or  send  the  blood,  bounding  with  a  healthful  life 
vigor,  through  the  system.  Add  to  this,  confirmed  seden- 
tary habits,  delicate  needle-work,  reading  exciting  books, 
and,  if  we  see  them  with  narrow  chests,  attenuated  muscles, 
pale  cheeks,  colorless  lips,  sharp  faces,  nervous  irritability, 
headache,  dyspepsia,  and  consumption,  it  is  only  the  legiti- 
mate fruit  of  such  an  erroneous  system  of  education.  To 
the  physiologist  it  would  appear  miraculous  were  it  other- 
wise. How  diflerent  is  this  every-day  picture  from  that  of 
their  earlier  years,  when  fashion  did  not  deem  it  necessary 
to  mar  nature's  work  by  artificial  habits  and  appliances. 

The  little  girl  driving  her  hoop,  or  jumping  the  rope,  in 


132  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 

tlio  Open  air,  or  nimbi iiig  for  flowers  or  berries  on  tlio  rug- 
ged hill-side,  without  dreaming  of  fashion  and  delicate  pro- 
priety, is  such  a  contrast,  in  looks  as  well  as  in  veritable 
health  and  native  stamina,  to  the  fashion-bleached  and  de- 
formed lady^  which,  by  false  education,  she  is  doomed  soon 
to  become,  that  Nature,  could  she  audibly  speak,  woidd  dis- 
avow relationship  with  such  a  shocking  metamorphosis. 

Public  sentiment,  in  this  country,  on  the  subject  of  the 
physical  education  of  females,  is,  we  think,  grossly  at  fault. 
The  false  idea  that  females  must  be  shut  up  in  heated,  badly 
ventilated  parlors,  and  loll  in  lassitude  on  soflis  and  easy 
chairs ;  that  thev  must  do  nothino-  but  the  most  unlaborious 
fancy-work  ;  that  they  must  not  walk  vigorously  in  the  brac- 
ing breezes,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  they  may,  and  to  be 
fashionable,  they  must^  dress  in  such  a  manner  as  to  restrain 
all  freedom  of  motion,  and  thus  lose  all  the  natural  advan- 
tages of  exercise ;  that  they  may  attend  soirees  and  parties 
in  mid-winter,  thinly  clad,  with  arms  and  neck  bare,  and, 
after  dancing  in  heated  rooms  until  near  morning,  they  are 
sent  forth  in  the  wintry  air  to  their  homes,  to  enjoy  in  cold 
rooms  a  season  of  fevered  and  untimely  sleep  as  best  they 
can.  "With  habits  such  as  these,  can  we  wonder  that  we 
have  a  nation  of  dyspeptical,  consumj^tive  females.  This, 
we  are  aware,  is  a  picture  of  the  wealtliy  and  fashionable, 
but  there  are  thousands  of  the  poor  who  delve  with  the 
needle  sixteen  hours  a  day,  in  contracted  apartments,  to  sus- 
tain life,  w^ho  have  been  so  educated  by  public  sentiment  as 
to  deem  it  a  disgrace  to  pursue  the  healthful  avocation  of 
housew^ork. 

In  this  country,  health  is  the  exception,  sickness  the  rule. 
Li  England,  the  reverse  is  the  case,  as  all  know  who  have 
visited  that  country,  and  as  all  may  infer  who  will  ob- 
serve the  immigrants  from  her  shores — not  the  laborious 
classes,  merely,  but  the  wealthy,  the  educated,  and  refined. 
Tliey  have  red  cheeks,  full  chests,  stout  muscles,  energy  of 
action,  fine  health  and  appetite.  The  reason  of  this  is, 
they  exercise  in  the  open  air,  and  they  dress  in  a  manner 
adapted  to  that  exercise.  An  English  w^oman  of  refinement 
thinks  nothing  of  walking  six  miles,  or  of  riding  on  horse- 


FEMALE     EDUCATION.  133 

back  twenty.     A  celebrated  American  journalist,  speaking 
of  the  habits  of  the  women  of  England,  remarks : 

"  I  remember  once  being  at  William  and  Mary  Ilowitt's, 
when  some  one  proposed  that  we  should  make  a  little  family 
visit  to  Epping  Forest;,  distant  some  four  or  five  miles.  The 
thought  never  entered  my  head  that  they  proposed  going  on 
foot.  As  we  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door,  I  was  expect- 
ing the  next  moment  to  help  the  two  ladies  making  our  party 
into  the  carriage  ;  but  I  saw  no  carriage  ;  and  when  I  asked 
where  was  the  carriage  ?  I  got  for  a  reply,  '  We  are  going 
on  foot,  of  course  !'  And  so  we  walked  all  the  way  there, 
and  rambled  all  the  day  long  over  the  beautiful  forest,  and 
at  night  walked  back  to  '  The  Elms.'  I  kept  looking  at  the 
ladies  while  we  were  returning,  expecting  to  see  them  faint 
away ;  and  finally,  when  we  all  sat  down  on  the  green  sward 
for  a  moment,  I  ventured  very  quietly  to  ask  one  of  them, 
'  Are  you  not  very  tired?'  I  got  for  a  reply  a  merry,  ringing 
laugh,  and  a  '  To  be  sure  not ;  I  could  walk  half  a  dozen  miles 
farther  yet !'  When  I  got  home,  I  was  so  fatigued  as  to  be 
unable  to  stand  without  great  pain  and  trouble,  and  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  the  English  ladies  were  my  su- 
periors in  ]Dhysical  powers  of  endurance.  I  saw  at  once 
the  secret  of  their  glorious  health,  their  buoyancy  and  flow 
of  spirits.     It  was  their  habits  of  exercise  out  of  doors. 

"I  was  once  conversins^  with  an  Eno-lish  ladv,  who  was 
near  eighty  years  old — the  mother  of  a  distinguished  writer 
— upon  this  capital  habit  of  walking  which  the  ladies  of  Eng- 
land have,  when  she  broke  forth  with,  '  When  I  was  a  young 
woman,  and  in  the  country,  I  used  to  walk  ten  miles  to  church 
on  a  Smiday  morning,  and  back  again  after  service !' 

"  Another  cause  of  the  brilliant  health  of  Eno^lish  women 
is  their  natural  love  for  horticulture.  An  English  lady  is  at 
home  in  her  garden,  among  the  flowers,  and  I  know  of  no  more 
beautiful  sight  in  the  world  than  that  of  a  fair,  open-browed, 
rosy-cheeked  woman  among  a  garden  full  of  flowers.  Talk 
of  your  merry  creatures  in  hot  drawing-rooms,  '  by  the  light 
of  the  chandelier,'  to  the  marines !  Here  is  beauty  fresh 
from  God's  hand  and  i^ature's — here  are  human  flowers  and 
those  of  l^ature  blooming  together." 

8 


134:  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 

We  are  aware  that  our  climate  is  dryer  and  hotter  than 
that  of  EnjT^Uind,  and  more  conducive  to  mental  activity  and 
nervous  excitement,  and,  of  consequence,  somewhat  less  fa- 
vorable to  the  expansion  and  health  of  the  plijsical  organiza- 
tion ;  but  there  is  ten  times  more  difference  in  our  actual 
condition,  in  those  respects,  than  these  circumstances  war- 
rant. Our  men,  Americanized  for  three  or  four  generations, 
have  relatively  more  bone,  and  dryer  and  harder  muscle, 
more  sprightliness  of  mind  and  activity  of  body,  and  less  of 
that  corporeal  roundness,  youthfulness  of  appearance  in  ad- 
vanced life,  than  are  seen  in  the  English ;  but  the  difference 
is  by  no  means  so  great  between  the  men  of  the  mother 
country  and  this  as  that  existing  between  the  women.  As 
we  are  descended  mainly  from  British  and  German  ancestry, 
we  ought,  at  least,  to  inherit,  in  some  good  degree,  the  health 
and  robustness  of  constitution  so  pre-eminently  belonging 
to  those  nations. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  many  of  the  English,  Irish,  and 
German  women  work  in  the  fields  like  the  men,  and  that 
their  robustness  and  endurance  is  but  a  species  of  masculine 
coarseness,  incompatible  with  intellectual  culture  and  Tefine- 
ment  of  feeling,  which  no  lady  in  America  should  be  ex- 
pected to  imitate,  even  for  so  great  a  boon  as  health.  If  this 
were  the  only  means  of  acquiring,  or,  rather,  of  retaining  and 
developing  the  native  health  and  vigor  of  woman,  we  might, 
perhaps,  justly  claim  that  so  valuable  an  acquisition  is  richly 
worth  such  a  cost.  But,  while  we  aver  that  this  j^articular 
course  is  not  necessary  to  health  ;  that  other  more  lady-like, 
yet  useful  occupations,  are  open  to  all,  and  equally  valuable 
as  affecting  health,  we  beg  to  cite  the  health  and  vigor  of 
the  British  Queen,  which,  we  suppose,  was  not  procured  by 
labor  in  the  harvest-field.  Her  health  has  been  the  subject 
of  care,  not  of  the  hot-house  order,  but  in  horseback  gal- 
loping over  the  fields,  or  walking  for  hours,  calisthenics,  and 
other  equally  appropriate  means.  Her  large  and  healthy 
family  is  an  evidence  that  her  full  cheek  and  rounded  arm 
are  not  counterfeit  indices  of  constitution  and  well-preserved 
vital  power. 

"  But,"  says  the  objector,  "  she  has  the  wealth  of  the  Brit- 


FEMALE     EDUCATION.  135 

ieli  empire  to  procure  for  lier  tlie  leisure  and  tlie  means  for 
such  exercises,  together  witli  the  wisdom  of  her  most  learned 
and  talented  physicians  to  prescribe  and  direct  them." 

True,  but  the  expenditure  of  such  wealth  and  wisdom,  with 
such  valuable  results,  should  serve  as  an  example  to  oui" 
countrywomen  who  have  wealth,  and  who  ought  to  value 
their  lives  enough  to  sacrifice  as  much  time  and  money  tc» 
preserve  health  as  they  now  do  to  be  sick  and  pay  phy^ 
sicians. 

To  the  middle  class  we  may  appeal ;  for  it  is  this  large  and 
valuable  class  that  makes  up  the  majority  of  society,  and 
sways  the  destinj^  of  mankind  in  America.  To  this  class 
we  say,  useful  and  pleasurable  exercise,  indoors  and  in  the 
open  air,  is  within  your  reach.  You  pay  strong  and  healthy 
servants — and  they  are  healthy  and  strong  because  they 
work — to  do  all  your  household  work  that  has  any  health- 
invigorating  labor  in  it,  while  you  daintily  creep  about  and 
dust  furniture  with  gloves  on,  attend  to  birds  or  a  few  house- 
plants,  or  confine  yourselves  to  needlework  or  other  seden- 
tary occupations.  When  you  go  abroad,  as  an  apology  for 
exercise,  it  is  with  thin  shoes,  with  some  parts  of  the  person 
overclad,  and  often  with  other  parts  exposed;  and  such 
walking,  to  be  fashionaUe^  must  be  so  demure  and  ridicu- 
lously artificial  as  to  serve  no  valuable  purpose. 

Do  you  live  in  the  country,  or  in  a  rural  city,  where  you 
can  have  a  garden  ?  Let  your  own  hands  cultivate  it  in  no 
small  degree.  In  the  house,  divide  the  health-giving  efi'ort 
required  to  wash,  sweep,  scrub,  and  scour,  between  your- 
selves and  your  servants,  that  you  may  share  their  health ; 
and  also  divide  with  them  the  drudgery  of  needlework,  that 
you  may  escape  the  nerve-shattering  and  debilitating  effects 
of  constant  application. 

Few  persons,  devoted  wholly  to  light  and  sedentary  occu- 
pations, know  the  luxury  of  rest  and  leisure.  The  toiler, 
when  he  becomes  wearied  with  labor,  would  gladly  exchange 
it  for  an  hour's  rest  at  the  tailor's  or  the  watch-maker's  worlt^ 
which  is  sending  them  to  an  early  grave ;  and  the  latter, 
by  engaging  for  several  hours  each  day  in  some  manly  avo- 
cation, would  return  to  his  sedentary  pursuit  as  a  pastime. 


tS^  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 

\V '  11  not  the  same  law  apply  with  equal  force  to  woman's 
d(^iaestic  sphere? 

In  childhood  and  youth,  girls  are  as  healthy,  hardy,  and 
callable  of  enduring  fatigue  as  boys,  for  the  very  good  rea- 
ROii  that  nature,  regarding  it  equally  as  necessary  to  give 
them  good  constitutions,  has  kindly  done  so ;  and  because 
they  run  and  romp  in  the  open  air,  and  thus  obey  the  prompt- 
ir.i]^s  of  unsophisticated  nature.  Yet  our  ^1671  are  much  more 
]i(>rilthy  than  women,  or  even  young  ladies.  Take  the  fami- 
]iofr^  of  merchants  and  business  men — not  the  purse-proud 
ntibob  on  the  one  hand,  nor^the  hardy  delver  on  the  other — 
an.  I  how  stands  the  matter  ?  The  men  are  active,  industrious, 
accustomed  to  a  good  degree  of  bodily  exertion ;  they  are 
1)1  ;sy  w4th  bales  and  boxes  among  draymen  and  porters  ;  they 
are  driving  about  the  wharves  and  streets  all  day,  their  minds 
aiKl  bodies  fully  employed,  and  go  home  with  a  keen  and 
Wt  ll-earned  appetite  ;  while  their  wives  and  daughters,  stand- 
3 Hi;',  of  course,  on  the  same  platform  of  respectability  with 
themselves,  have  dragged  through  the  w^earisome  hours  of 
tlie  day  in  listless  idleness  or  sedentary  pursuits,  and  ap- 
yi\  >ach  the  table  with  an  appetite  that  almost  spurns  the  re- 
]vast  which  other  hands  have  prepared,  and  till  their  anxious 
luisband's  or  father's  ears  with  complaints  of  a  thousand 
ill^',  which,  perhaps,  nothing  but  a  summer  at  the  springs 
i  0  watering-places  can  assuage.  Poor  creatures,  they  have 
not  been  properly  educated.  Fashion  would  pout  its  con- 
temptuous lips,  and  toss  its  brainless  head  at  the  idea  of 
useful  toil  for  the  wife  and  daughters  of  a  wealthy  merchant! 
Br.t  that  same  fickle  goddess  has  no  objection  to  the  father 
and  son  going  into  the  store,  and  laboring  all  day,  rolling 
]>arrels,  packing  and  unpacking  goods,  which,  for  the??i,  is 
all  very  well ;  but  she  denies  to  the  daughter  any  part  in 
household  affairs,  because  it  is  vulgar  and  disreputable,  and 
consigns  her  to  the  practice  of  music,  drawing,  w^orsted  and 
lave-work.  What  matters  it  if  the  soti's  hand  he  hard,  his 
cliest  and  muscles  brawny,  his  face  browned  b_y  the  sun  and 
wi  iid,  and,  with  these,  firm  health ;  but  the  daughter  must 
he  slim,  fragile,  pale,  and  delicate,  with  soft,  white  hands, 
f  o  be  worthy  to  rank  with  the  sons  of  merchants,  who  are 


FEMALE     EDUCATION.  1  o7 

every  clay  employed,  just  like  her  brother,  with  like  resuKs 
But  our  patience  wanes  in  the  examination  of  the  mulii- 
tudinous   errors  of  female    education.     Our  thoughts    on 
m':^ntal  education  must  be  deferred  to  another  chapter. 

CHAPTER     II. 

In  the  preceding  chapter,  our  remarks  were  devoted  en- 
tirely to  the  training  of  the  body,  which,  as  we  conceive, 
hes  at  the  foundation  of  all  human  education.  The  body 
is  to  the  mind  what  the  frame-work  of  the  steamer,  and  lis 
boiler  and  fuel,  are  to  the  engine.  This  cannot  make  a 
single  revolution,  or  serve  any  valuable  purpose,  without  a 
frame-work  to  sustain  it,  and  steam  to  impart  propulsioi  ; 
nor  can  the  mind,  in  our  present  state,  give  token  of  its 
hish  original,  without  bodily  health  and  strength. 

Cast  aVance  over  the  catalogue  of  our  mental  giants   -i 
the  present  day— our  leading  speakers  and  thinkers,  in  1  lu 
pulpit,   senate,   and  lecture-room,  and  we  will  find  theiu, 
every  one,  having  a  vigorous  body  as'well  as  mind.     Maiiy 
men  can  think  with  a  comparatively  slender  constituti(^;u 
but  they  can  not,  as  speakers  and  actors,  move  mankmd  and 
electrify  the  worid.     He  who  would  do  more  for^  the  woi  \a 
than  merely  to  exert  an  occasional  gleam  of  genius,  shoii'a 
lay  the  strong  and  deep  foundation  of  his  power  in  a  somul, 
well  educated  bodv.     Then  he  will  have  the  vital   loiv^.e 
requisite  to  sustain  the  mind  in  long  and  vigorous  actio:  u 
and  realize  the  hopes  himself  and  his  friends  cherished  in 
the  development  of  his  mental  nature.     If  this  be  true -^f 
men,  with  how  much  more  force  can  the  principle  be  appliod 
to  the  education  of  females,  whose  habits,  we  regret  to  say, 
have  been  more  widely  warped  by  fashion  and  false  custoir, 
in  respect  to  health  and  education,  than  those  of  the  othor 


sex. 


We  have  promised  to  speak  of  mental  education,  and^  :a 
doing  so  we  remark,  first,  that  as  the  continued  educatiui 
of  the  body  is  necessary,  that  of  the  mind  should  be  con- 
ducted in  'such  a  manner  and  with  such  speed  only  :13 
comports  with  health.  Tlie  female  temperament  is  usually 
more  active,  and  the  mind  more  susceptible,  than  those  of 


i3S  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 

the  male.  Consequently  females  usually  learn  faster, 
become  excited  by  the  praise  bestowed  upon  tlieir  excel- 
lences in  scliolarsliip,  and  hence  the  extra  exertion  of  the 
nervous  system,  and  the  superinduced  sedentary  habit  which 
still  closer  application  to  study  involves,  shatters  their  con- 
stitutions at  a  very  early  age.  Your  fat,  awkward,  red-faced 
girl,  who  loves  the  bracing  breezes,  fun  and  frolic  in  the 
open  air,  more  than  books,  is  not  likely  to  be  injured  by  the 
above  influences.  At  sixteen  her  mind  will  ripen  and  ex- 
pand, and  at  twenty  she  will  be  a  good  scholar.  But  the 
little,  delicate,  susceptible  girl,  with  thin,  sharp  features, 
expanded  forehead,  large,  intelligent  blue  eyes,  with  a 
strong  endowment  of  the  love  of  approbation,  is  the  very 
one  to  be  driven  almost  to  madness  in  mental  activity.  She 
bends  soul  and  body  over  her  books,  becomes  a  prodigy  in 
education,  and  her  friends,  misguided  teacher,  and  all,  lavish 
praises  upon  her  educational  superiority,  which  only  serves 
to  inflame  her  brain,  and  add  fuel  to  that  fire  which  is  con- 
suming her  vitality  and  preparing  her  for  the  tomb.  ISTot  in 
school  only  does  she  struggle  on  in  the  mental  pathway,  but 
she  is  not  only  permitted  but  encouraged  to  take  her  books 
home,  to  con  her  lessons  late  and  early  ;  or  if  she  is  permitted 
a  moment's  respite  from  her  books,  it  is  to  be  shown  up  in 
company  as  an  intellectual  pet,  and  to  listen  to  adulations 
of  her  great  achievements  and  her  mental  brilliancy.  Such 
gifted,  hot-house  plants  are  regarded  as  the  special  favorites 
t>f  heaven,  and  if  they  be  so,  is  it  strange  that  the  maxim 
found  believers,  that 

"  Those  whom  the  gods  love,  die  young  ?" 

"VVe  need  not  say  that  such  children  should  be  held  back 
in  mental  exercise,  nor  that  they  are  the  very  ones  who  are 
nlwayp  crowded  onward,  by  approval  and  encouragement  at 
least,  ii  not  by  direct  requirement.  They  will  crowd  them- 
selves, if  it  be  not  done  by  parent  and  teacher.  The  proper 
oourse  is  to  check  mental,  and  promote  physical  activit3\ 

This,  we  are  aware,  is  a  picture  of  one  class  of  constitu- 
tions, but  it  unfortunately  i§  a  very  large  class,  and  a  class 
that  we  are  particularly  anxious  to  save  from  the  errors  of 
education,  to  save  froni  derangement  of  constitution,  and 


FEMALE     EDUCATION.  139 

from  the  grave.  And  in  nine  cases  in  ten  of  precocious 
nervous  and  mental  development,  it  can  be  done.  Educate 
tLeir  bodies  first  and  continually,  and  tlieir  minds  second- 
arily, as  tbey  can  bear  it,  and  we  might  then  see  genius 
enthroned  as  on  a  pedestal  of  granite,  to  bless  the  world 
with  its  heat  and  light,  to  a  ripe  old  age.  What  a  sad  fact, 
that  the  brightest  and  best  of  our  females  must  be  blighted 
and  sent  to  early  graves  by  misdirected  education ! 

Another  error  in  female  education,  is  that  which  cultivates 
the  showy  and  [esthetic  faculties  of  the  mind,  and  leaves  the 
more  solid,  common-sense  elements  undevelo23ed.  Elegant 
accomplishments,  that  glitter  and  dazzle,  are  placed  in  the 
foreground  of  female  culture,  as  if  their  only  errand  in  life 
was  to  be  placed  in  a  social  conservatory,  as  we  do  a  rare 
flower,  to  bloom  in  the  soft  atmosphere  of  perpetual  admira- 
tion. Hence,  drawing,  painting,  dancing,  French,  music, 
botany,  ornamental  needlework,  dress,  and  a  useless  round 
of  ladyism,  constitute  the  bulk  of  the  popular  idea  of  a  fin- 
ished female  education.  Do  females  lack  reasoning  power  ? 
K  so,  then  give  them  no  scientific  study  that  demands  it. 
Is  she  made  up  entirely  of  the  literary  faculties,  with 
imitation,  ideality,  approbativeness,  and  the  social  quali- 
ties ?  If  so,  give  her  a  fashionable  education,  and  you  will 
call  those  faculties  into  activity,  and  almost  no  other.  In- 
deed, she  will  be  but  half  developed,  and  that  half  which 
makes  her  weak,  helpless,  and  dependent ;  a  tinsel  ornament, 
rather  than  a  calm,  earnest,  common-sense  com^^anion,  coun- 
selor, and  helpmate  for  man. 

As  woman  is  now  educated,  she  is  taught  to  be  a  creature 
of  impulse  and  sympathy,  an  elegant  toy.  We  see  no  good 
reason  why  she  should  not  be  endowed  with  sound,  consec- 
utive, reasoning  power,  for  if  any  being  on  earth  needs  wis-' 
dom,  judgment,  reflection,  and  a  well-disciplined  intellect, 
combined  with  strong  aftection,  and  elevated  refinement  of 
taste  and  feeling,  it  is  she  who  is  to  mold  the  character  of 
the  familv  which  is  to  control  tlie  church,  state,  and  the 
business  world  in  the  next  generation. 

Let  females  be  taught  chemistry  ;  for  who,  more  than 
those  who  compound  the  food  of  the  world,  need  it.     Let 


140  FEMALE     EDUCATION. 

them  study  physiology,  for  they  have  the  charge  of  the 
clothing,  feeding,  and  health  of  the  world.  Those  who  have 
the  care  of  the  ventilation,  the  warming  and  regimen  of  our 
homes,  can  not  be  too  well  versed  in  those  sciences  which 
alone  can  furnish  the  bride  with  just  qualifications  for  those 
important  responsibilities. 

We  are  aware  that  thirty  years'  experience  will  teach 
manv  of  the  lessons  of  domestic  economv,  but  we  would 
have  all  science  bearing  on  every-day  life  taught  to  girls,  so 
that,  when  they  launch  forth  for  themselves  on  the  sea  of 
life,  they  may  have  the  chart  and  compass  of  a  correct  edu- 
cation, to  guide  their  course  to  a  successful  life-voyage. 
"Why  should  a  person  be  a  lifetime  learning  the  laws  that 
govern  health,  and  only  learn  by  sad  experience  how  to 
conduct  the  j)hysical  and  moral  management  of  the  yonng 
when  they  have  grandchildren  to  exercise  that  knowledge 
n23on  ?  Knowledge  is  better  late  than  never  in  coming,  but 
we  would  not  have  it  deferred  until  a  generation  of  mental 
and  physical  constitutions  are  ruined,  and  one  half  a  genera- 
tion are  made  tenants  of  short  graves. 

Let  females  be  well  instructed  in  arithmetic,  mathematics, 
and  natural  philosophy,  book-keeping,  domestic  economy, 
and  history,  with  logic  and  metaphysics,  for  who,  more  than 
a  mother,  needs  all  the  solid  stores  of  learning  and  the'.';ght 
to  manage  a  family  and  fill  her  stations  in  society  ?  Give 
her  these,  for  she  has  talent  to  appreciate  and  use  them ;  her 
true  sphere  demands  their  exercise,  and  she  will  cease  to  be 
deemed  a  frivolous,  fitful,  useless  butterfly.  It  is  a  vronder 
that  her  education  has  not  spoiled  her.  If  she  were  not 
the  better  half  of  creation,  she  could  not  have  endured  so 
much  bad  management,  and  still  be  deemed  worthy  of  ado- 
ration. 


There  is  an  inconstancy  proceeding  from  the  levity  or 
weakness  of  the  mind,  which  makes  it  give  into  every  one's 
opinions :  and  there  is  another  inconstancy,  more  excusable, 
which  arises  from  satiety. 


DERELICT     PULPIT.  141 


DEEELICT  PULPIT. 

BY    HORACE    DRESSER,    ESQ. 


It  has  become  a  matter  of  serious  inquiry  witli  tliose  who 
have  weighed  the  subject  of  moral  law,  why  it  is  that  the 
note  of  alarm  has  not  been  sounded  generally  from  the  pul- 
pits  in  our   land — those  high   places — those  watch-towers 
where  are  stationed  so  manj  sentinels,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
guard  the  public  morals  and  watch  over  the  interests  of  the 
soul.     This  silence  certainly  is  not  because  there  is  no  occa- 
sion to  speak  out — not  because  tlfese  sentinels  have  not  en- 
tered into  solemn  covenant  with  the  great  Captain  of  salva- 
tion, to  proclaim  the  danger  when  discovered — not  because 
they  are  ignorant  of  the  fearful  inroads  of  the  enemy — not 
because  one  law  of  God  is  less  imperative  than  another,  or 
because  violations  of  the  one  are  less  obnoxious  to  the  pen- 
alties imposed  by  High  Heaven,  than  the  violations  of  an- 
other.    It  certainly  is  not  because  there  is  no  warrant  to  ci^j 
aloud  and  sjMve  not — not  because  there  is  no  guilt  in  slmn- 
ning  to  declare  the  whole  counsel  of  God — nor  because  a 
knowledge  of  the  Master's  will  and  non-compliance  there- 
with, bring  no  condemnation.     The  commission,  the  author- 
ity with  which  the  pulpit  is  clothed,  is  exceeding  broad,  ex- 
tending in  its  obligations  through  all  the  various  relations 
and  circumstances  under  which  fallen  man  is  found  to  stand 
to  his  neighbor  and  to  God.     It  demands  a  proclamation  of 
the  whole  Law  in  its  majesty,  with  its  penalty  of  death,  as 
well  as  of  the  whole  gospel  in  its  mercy,  with  its  terms  of 
pardon.     The  same  Law  which  thunders  against  idolatry  and 
profanity,  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  dishonor  of  parents, 
and  murder,  and  theft,  and  perjury,  and  covetousness,  also 


142  DERELICT     rULPIT. 

Utters  its  voice  with  intonations  deep  and  loud  and  lengiit 
ened,  against  adultery  and  all  uncleanness.  It  requires  liim 
of  the  pulpit  to  dimde  equally  the  word  of  God.  It  reaches 
to  the  utmost  boundaries  between  sin  and  holiness — it  en- 
compasses the  whole  field  of  moral  action.  It  has  to  do  with 
the  mercj  of  God  not  only,  but  with  His  inflexible  justice. 

Let  ijt  be  asked,  then,  of  the  clergy  of  our  land,  what  an- 
swer they  will  give  to  the  inquiry,  and  how  they  w411  recon- 
cile the  course  2:>ursued,  with  their  sacred  obligations  ?  Will 
they  justify  themselves  and  appease  conscience  with  the  stale 
and  insipid  objection  so  frequently  urged,  that  it  is  a  difficult 
and  delicate  subject?  But  are  they  not  competent  to  the 
discussion  of  difficult  and  delicate  subjects?  Is  their  learn- 
ing so  circumscribed  and  their  use  of  language  so  limited, 
that  they  can  not  approach  this  subject? 

ISTo  special  plea  of  justification  of  this  kind  can  be  receiv- 
ed ;  and  their  ability  to  arouse  the  public  conscience  and 
correct  the  public  sentiment  so  as  to  overthrow  the  temples 
of  sensuality,  is  a  point  settled — completely  established'  by 
the  testimony  of  facts  in  enterprizes  of  kindred  character. 
Then  how  can  they  coolly  resolve  not  to  meddle  with  or  men- 
tion this  great  accursed  and  accursing  evil.  Their  let-alone 
policy  has  well-nigh  brought  the  popular  sentiment  to  such 
a  condition  that  it  requires  a  more  than  Hercules  to  under- 
take the  labor  of  purification. 

The  Augean  stables  of  this  vice  must  be  thoroughly  cleans- 
ed not  only,  but  not  even  a  wreck  of  them  left  behind — and 
how  can  this  be  done  unless  a  more  healthful  current  of  sen- 
timent shall  be  made  to  flow  in  upon  them  through  the  agen- 
cies and  instrumentalities  of  the  pulpit  ?  Tliere  is  a  moral 
power  in  the  truths  which  come  from  this  source  capable  of 
prostrating  in  the  dust  these  mighty  structures,  which  the 
Spirit  of  Evil,  as  if  by  enchantment,  has  reared  in  our  midst. 

Let  the  minister  of  the  gospel  remember  he  holds  in  his 
hands  a  gi^eat  reforming  and  transforming  instrument — the 
Bible.  With  this  he  may  go  out  to  meet  the  uncircumcised 
foe  of  Israel,  and  he  shall  conquer,  if  he  trust  in  Israel's  God. 
Armed  thus,  he  need  not  fear  the  semed  hosts  of  Philistia, 
nor  the  giant  armor  of  the  sons  of  Anak.     He  has  in  his 


DERELICT     PULPIT.  14 


o 


hands  a  great  moral  sun-glass  :  let  liim  concentrate  and  bring 
to  bear  the  rajs  of  the  glorious  Sun  of  Kighteousness  on  this 
plague  spot  of  our  land — this  leprosy  of  the  soul — and  it 
ghall  kindle  a  holj  fire,  which  shall  cauterize  and  consume 
away  the  unclean  thing. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  this  evil  is  so  small  that  it  re- 
quires only  a  laugh  to  put  it  to  flight — that  the  satirist's  pen 
is  weapon  weighty  enough  to  crush  it — nor  that  it  is  beneath 
the  gravity  and  dignity  of  the  pulpit  to  encounter  it — no, 
not  for  a  moment ;  for  in  truth  it  is  one  of  giant  magnitude, 
striding  throughout  the  land  with  murderous  steps,  trampling 
down  the  social  and  domestic  altars,  and  seeking  the  subver- 
sion of  civil  government  and  the  institutions  of  our  holy  re- 
ligion. And  yet  the  cry  is  from  some,  Let  it  be  satirized, — 
it  can  be  laughed  down.     But 

Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed ; 


Laughed  at,  he  laughs  again;  and  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales. 
That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 

Alas  !  what  has  the  satirist  done  to  check  vice  and  correct 
the  morals  of  a  people  ?  Get  your  answer  from  the  records 
of  ancient  Kome.  Go  to  the  "  eternal  city"  and  mingle  in 
her  scenes  of  licentiousness — sit  down  and  hold  communion 
with  her  Horace  and  her  Juvenal,  and  the  long  list  of  her 
worthies  of  the  Auo^ustan  a^e — witness  the  conduct  of  her 
men  not  only,  but  of  her  fabled  deities — and  then  pronounce 
confidently  on  the  use  of  means  other  than  the  truths  of  the 
Bible. 

Does  the  missionary  of  our  day  deal  in  laughter  and  satire, 
as  he  kindles  up  his  watch-fires  in  the  darkness  of  paganism, 
and  as  their  light  reveals  in  "darkness  visible"  the  monsters 
of  impurity  ?  Did  Paul  thus  and  the  other  apostles  in  their 
day?  Did  Christ  and  the  prophets  thus  in  their  messages  to 
the  people  ?     Did  Moses  thus  with  the  children  of  Israel  ? 

The  pulpit,  therefore,  (and  I  name  it  filled 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing) — 
The  pulpit,  (when  the  satirist  has  at  last. 
Strutting  and  vaporing  in  an  empty  school, 


144  DOMESTIC     HAPPINESS. 

Spent  all  his  force  and  made  no  proselyte) — 

I  say,  the  pulpit,  (in  the  solemn  use 

Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers,) 

Must  stand  acknowledged,  Avhile  the  world  shall  stand, 

The  most  important  and  effectual  guard. 

Support,  and  ornament  of  Virtue's  cause. 

There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth  :  there  stands 

The  legate  of  the  skies  !     His  theme  divine, 

His  oflBce  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 

By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out 

Its  thunders ;  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 

As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers,  Peace 

He  establishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 

Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 

And,  armed  himself  in  panoply  complete  « 

Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 

Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 

Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war. 

The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect ! 

Are  ALL  such  teachers  ?    Would  to  Heaven  all  were  I 


DOMESTIC    HAPPINESS. 

"  Domestic  happiness :  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise,  that  has  survived  the  fall." 

The  social  circle,  the  conjugal  state,  was  designed  by  Heav- 
en as  an  Eden  of  pure  and  elevated  love,  where  all  the  kind- 
ly affections  might  bud  and  blossom,  and  bring  forth  fruit  in 
full  maturity.  The  most  valuable  social  gift  God  ever  gave 
to  man  is  a  comj^anion  ',  and  the  most  interesting  and  mo- 
mentous step  that  can  be  taken  in  this  life,  next  to  that  which 
seals  the  eternal  destiny  of  the  soul,  is  the  choice  of  a  com- 
panion for  life  I  for  then  a  union  is  formed  that  can  be  sun- 
dred  only  by  immortality  or  death.  And  it  is  equally  true, 
that  no  step  of  equal  moment  in  life  is  taken,  especially  by 
the  young,  with  so  little  sound  discretion,  or  cool,  deliberate 
forethought  as  this ;  and  how  many  rush  to  the  altar  of  mat- 
rimony as  firmly  and  as  unhesitatingly,  as  if  the  impulse  of 
love  was  inspired  by  unerring  reason  ;  but,  alas  !  they  reap 
the  bitter  fruit  of  their  misguided  judgment  in  domestic  un- 
happiness  and  conjugal'  woe. 


DOMESTIC     HAPPINESS.  145 

The  conjugal  state  was  designed  by  our  benevolent  Crea- 
tor as  a  sanctuary  of  the  most  elevated  social  bliss ;  and  if 
enjoyed  in  its  true  light,  will  prove  thus.  In  order  to  secure 
this,  the  parties  should,  if  possible,  become  personcdly  ac- 
quainted with  each  other;  the  character  and  accomplish- 
ments should  then  be  carefully  studied,  and  they  should  be 
Buch  as  to  insure  both  respect  and  attachment ;  there  should 
also  be  equality  in  the  situation  and  rank  of  both,  and  a  sim- 
ilarity of  disposition  and  habits,  and  their  love  should  be 
based  upon  the  purest  principles  ;  then,  to  be  truly  happy  in 
the  married  relation,  it  is  desirable  that  the  parties  be  truly 
religious.  If  such  qualifications  are  secured,  a  union  so 
formed  may  be  sanctioned  by  the  Almighty,  and  can  not 
fail  to  result  in  domestic  happiness  and  conjugal  felicity ; 
and  as  they  travel  on  in  the  relations  of  husband  and  wife, 
whether  in  prosperity  or  adversity,  the  sorrows  of  life  will 
be  sweetened  bv  the  knowledge  of  their  mutual  love  and  for- 
bearance  toward  each  other,  and  their  readiness  to  comply 
with  each  other's  tastes  and  feelings  ;  and  if  for  a  moment  a 
cloud  arises  to  darken  the  sunshine  of  their  pathway,  how 
quickly  the  smile  of  love  dis^^els  it.  Tliat  true,  kindred, 
spontaneous  sympathy  exists  between  them  which  constitutes 
the  true  bond  of  such  a  union,  and  without  which  none  can 
be  truly  happy.  The  love  they  bare  for  each  other  strength- 
ens them  in  the  path  of  duty,  however  difficult  to  perform, 
and  their  trials  and  afflictions,  if  such  they  have,  are  sancti- 
fied to  them  through  the  religion  of  Jesus.  Daily  do  they 
thank  God  for  the  blessings  which  surround  them,  and  ask  a 
continuance  of  their  prosperity  and  happiness,  and  the 
prosperity  and  happiness  of  their  fellow-creatures  around 
them.  Thus  they  live,  happy  in  life,  and  happy  in  the 
anticipation  of  higher  and  more  exalted  joys  in  the  better 
world. 

In  the  domestic  circle,  in  every  relation,  there  ought  to 
exist  the  sweetest  ties  of  love  and  friendship.  In  the  several 
relations  of  parents  and  children,  brothers  and  sisters,  what 
is  more  beautiful  than  sincere  affection  and  filial  love.  In. 
the  circle  where  this  and  religion  are  combined,  it  is  indeed 
an  Eden  of  enjoyment,  a  little  paradise  below. 


14G  MEMOKIESOFCniLDHOODo  i 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

BY    MRS.    R.    M.    CONKLIN.  ] 

Oh,  the  lovely  spot  where  ray  childhood  passed. 

By  the  sunny  Hudson's  shore, 
Where  tiie  sun-kissed  waves  were  gliding  fast, 

Or  rushed  at  the  storm  king's  roar; 
And  the  hickory  tree  beneath  the  hill, 

Where  I  in  youth's  spring-time  played — 
Watched  the  sunny  gleams  on  the  sparkling  jill, 

Or  slumbered  beneath  the  shade. 

Oh,  the  hours  flew  gently  o'er  my  head, 

As  I  echoed  the  wild  birds'  strain ; 
No  friend  I  had  loved  lay  with  the  dead. 

And  life's  path  crossed  a  flowery  plain: 
Where  the  only  sorrow  I  ever  knew 

Was  a  cloudy  summer's  day. 
Or  the  rain,  though  gentle  as  evening  dew, 

Made  the  grass  too  wet  to  play. 

Or  when  winter  came,  with  no  freezing  kiss 

But  with  spring-like  weepings  weak, 
And  the  Ice- king's  breath  was  warm  with  the  kiss 

He  had  stolen  from  Autumn's  cheek  ; 
And  the  snow  had  hidden  its  feather  flakes 

'Neath  some  sullen  rain-faced  cloud. 
And  the  watery  wind,  with  his  ague  quakes, 

Passed  mournful,  or  thundered  loud. 

When  our  house-dog  trembled  before  the  blast, 

And  whined  for  in-door  relief, 
And  my  drooping  birds  went  shivering  past. 

Then  my  young  heart  throbbed  with  grief. 
But  the  ice  came  thick,  and  the  snow-heaps  high, 

And  Tray  bounds  aloft  with  joy  : 
As  I  catch  the  gleam  from  his  faithful  eye, 

My  pleasure  has  no  alloy. 

I  am  older  now,  but  youth's  pleasures  are, 

Of  all  pleasures,  the  dearest  still, 
And  often  when  slumber  hides  each  care, 

I'm  a  child  on  the  steep  green  hill. 


THE   mother's   influence  147 

Long  years  of  joy,  with  a  few  of  pain, 

Have  passed,  while  afar  I  roam ; 
But,  oh,  I  would  feign  be  a  child  again, 

In  my  humble  Hudson  home  ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE. 

BY    N.    W. 

"  My  mother's  voice — ^how  often  creeps 
Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours ; 
Like  healing  sent  on  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew,  to  the  unconscious  flowers." 

My  motlier's  voice  !  liow  many,  how  varied  the  emotions 
that  swell  the  bosom,  as  through  "memory's  mystic  cell," 
the  voice  of  a  mother  comes  over  us  with  all  its  tender, 
thrilling  sweetness;  though  years,  perchance,  may  have 
passed  since  we  last  heard  its  loved  tones — her  spirit  may 
have  gone  to  receive  the  reward  of  her  labors,  while  yon  dis- 
tant church-yard  contains  her  (to  us)  dear  clay,  and  the  rose- 
ti-ee,  which  affection  planted  above  the  place  of  her  long 
rest,  blooms  all  unconsciously,  sending  forth  a  sweet  per- 
fume, emblematical  of  the  influence  of  the  quiet  slumberer. 
The  l3reeze  waves  the  tall  grass  above  the  sacred  mound ; 
Time's  relentless  hand  has  effaced  the  marks  of  her  footsteps, 
but  her  influence  still  lives  on,  continually  budding  and 
blossoming  anew,  and  none  may  know  the  extent  of  that 
influence  until  the  book  of  the  recording  angel  shall  be 
opened,  and  there  all  pure  and  true,  stands  the  records  of 
l£ose  warning  words,  those  sighs  and  tears,  and  the  prayers 
that  in  the  stillness  of  her  closet  ascended  for  her  loved 
child. 

My  mother !  sacred  name — how  often  has  it  cheered  the 
lone  wanderer  in  foreign  lands,  the  exile  and  homeless, 
wherever  they  may  be — on  the  ocean's  rolling  billow,  or  on 
the  missionary  fields,  teaching  the  Word  of  Life  to  the 
heathen,  and  instructing  them  to  look  forward  to  an  immor- 
tality beyond  the  grave.     Yes,  even  the  strong  man,  armed 


148  THE   mother's   influence. 

■witli  tlie  assurances  of  the  gospel,  recalls  to  mind,  witli  con- 
soling tenderness,  the  words  of  a  mother,  in  tliat  distant 
home  beyond  the  wave,  where  he  first  felt  that  to  live  for 
others  was  a  holy  mission.  At  such  times  that  mother's 
counsels  strengthen  him,  and  he  feels  and  owns  her  happy 
influence.  And  may  we  not  cherish  the  fond  belief,  that  a 
mother's  influence  may  penetrate  the  dark  cells  of  the  dun- 
geon, and  that  even  beneath  the  hardened  visage  and  rough 
exterior  of  the  man  of  crimes,  warmly  beats  a  heart,  at  times, 
not  only  with  conviction,  but  with  awakened  feelings  of 
truth  and  virtue,  as  his  imagination  wanders  back  to  the 
scenes  of  his  early  childhood,  and  fancy,  still  true,  pictures 
that  home  in  all  its  summer  beauty ;  the  cottage  on  the 
gi'een  lawn,  the  woodbine  that  so  lovingly  twined  about  the 
door,  the  happy  song  of  birds,  the  soft  and  lulling  murmur 
of  the  rivulet — all  with  vivid  distinctness  come  up  before 
his  mind's  eye ;  those  hours  of  innocent  childhood,  when  a 
fond  mother  taught  his  infantile  lips  to  whisper  "  My  father,'' 
and  with  her  soft  hand  gently  laid  upon  that  fair  young 
brow,  knelt  by  his  side,  and  ofiered  up  an  earnest  prayer  to 
Him  who  heard  the  prayer  of  faith,  for  her  loved  son,  her 
darling  boy.  Oh,  how  the  strong  man  trembles  as  these 
reflections  pass  through  his  mind,  and  the  man  of  many 
years,  whose  hand  has  committed  crimes  of  the  darkest  dye, 
weej^s !  yes,  tears  course  down  those  sun-browned  and  scarred 
cheeks  ;  and  who  shall  say  that  a  mother's  influence  had  not 
saved  her  son  ? 

"What  an  incentive  to  action  has  the  mother — she  who  has 
immortal  minds  committed  to  her  charge !  It  is  a  holy 
trust  and  a  pleasing  task  to  train  the  plant  and  watch  the 
tender  bud  unfold  its  j)etals,  and  to  see  it  exj)and  in  good- 
ness and  virtue.  And  how  elevated  must  be  the  happiness 
of  the  mother,  when,  with  the  angels  around  the  throne  of 
Him  who  said,  "  Let  little  children  come  unto  me,"  she  re- 
ceives a  crown  of  glory,  and  there  meets  the  happy  spirits 
of  those  she  loved  on  earth,  and  they  shall  point  and  say. 
Behold  my  mother ;  she  led  me  to  the  fountain  of  hoKness, 
and  blessed  be  her  name. 


SAN   FRANCISCO. 

BY     HEV.     ISAAC     M.     SHERMAN,    D .  T . 

With  a  Steel  Engraving. 

In  the  year  of  gi\^ce,  one  tlioiisand  eight  hundred  and 
forty-three,  on  the  twentj-nfth  of  August,  the  bark  Dia- 
mond, Captain  Fowler,  of  Scarborough,  dropj^ed  anchor  in 
the  harbor  of  San  Francisco,  having  on  board  two  missionary 
families,  returning,  with  broken  health,  from  several  years 
of  severe  toil  in  the  then  wilderness  of  Oregon. 

One  of  them,  Eev.  J.  A.  Frost,  of  jS'ew  York,  thus  writes 
in  his  journal :  "  This  is  an  extensive  bay  and  a  most  splen- 
did harbor,  and  the  smTounding  country  is  well  adapted  to 
gi-azing,  and  much  of  it  to  the  growing  of  wheat  and  other 
grains ;  but  the  comitry  never  will  prosper  until  it  has  a 
very  different  government  from  the  present." 

A  lady  of  the  sam.e  party  subsequently  remarked,  in  speak- 
ing of  this  place:  '-'I  was  wearied  with  the  monotony  of  a 
sea  vojage,  and  when  we  landed  and  ascended  one  of  the 
hills  commanding  a  fine  view,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
any  thing  so  lovely.  It  seemed  to  me,  here  was  one  spot  on 
the  globe  unmarred  by  sin,  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the 
hand  of  its  Creator.  It  was  just  such  a  scene  of  unbroken 
tranquillity,  just  such  a  mingling  of  green  hills,  and  smiling 
valleys,  of  the  deep,  heaving  sea,  and  the  soft,  blue  summer 
skies,  as  I  had  dreamed  of  in  my  days  of  early  romance. 

9 


154  SAN     FEAXCISCO. 

And  here  I  stood,  after  liaving  looked  long  nj^on  the  dis- 
gusting abominations  of  Paganism,  and  tlie  worse  enormities 
of  those  bearing  the  name  of  Christian,  and  I  said  to  mjself, 
how  gladly  I  would  spend  the  remainder  of  mj  days  i  .1  this 
quiet  spot."     Such  was  San  Francisco  in  1843. 

Little,  indeed,  did  our  pious  friends  imagine,  that  in  less 
than  six  years  the  government  loauld  be  changed,  and  that 
on  that  solitary  strand  an  immense  city  should  stretch  her 
arms  to  every  corner  of  the  globe  ;  that  streets,  and  wdiarves, 
and  long  lines  of  substantial  storehouses,  should  rise  with 
a  rapidity  Vvdiich  should  outdo  all  the  palace-building  genii 
of  Eastern  story ;  that  long  streets  should  swarm  with  busy 
multitudes,  still  augmented  by  coming  thousands  ;  that  the 
voice  of  music  and  revelry  should  ring  out  from  her  spacious 
palaces,  and  that  she  should  pour  her  millions  of  treasures 
into  the  lap  of  nations. 

At  a  period  little  more  than  eight  years,  that  is,  in  May, 
1852,  one  of  the  many  San  Francisco  ]3apers  discourses  thus: 
"  Our  population,  drawn  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe, 
and  made  up  of  every  race,  continues  to  increase  with  aston- 
ishing raj^idity.  Tlie  number  of  passengers  landing  at  San 
Francisco,  during  the  month  of  May,  is  as  follows.^^  Then 
comes  a  list  of  arrivals  from  twelve  ditferent  governments, 
making  the  sum  of  eleven  thousand ;  and  after  various  de- 
tails, adds :  "  "We  may  safely  estimate  the  permanent  increase 
of  our  population  at  one  hundred  thousand  during  the  present 
year." 

Tlie  same  paper  makes  mention  of  $5,000,000  in  gold  dust, 
shipped  for  the  single  port  of  l^ew  York,  during  the  same 
Kionth.  So  history  writes  proudly,  with  her  pen  of  iron,  and 
tliB  nations  clap  their  hands,  and  cry,  "Wonderful !"  and  our 
patriots,  great  and  small,  throw  up  their  caps,  and  cry,  ""Wo 
are  a  glorious  nation  !     We  are  a  great  people  !" 

But  the  tragic  muse,  with  heaving  breast,  writes  other 
liistories  on  the  tablets  of  thousands  of  bleeding  hearts.  She 
tells,  in  plaintive  words,  of  whole  rivers  of  tears,  not  the  less 
bitter  because  unseen  and  unavailing.  She  tells  of  gray- 
haired  fathers,  who,  led  on  by  an  insane  thirst  for  gold,  left 
their  families  with  diminished   means  of  subsistence,  and 


SAN     FRANCISCO.  155 

ruslied  to  toil  and  die  on  a  far-off  sliore,  imtended  and  un- 
known ;  of  husbands  wlio  lie  in  unlionored  graves ;  of  bro- 
thers who  foi*sook  their  23leasant  homes ;  and  of  lovers  who 
forgot  their  vows,  to  die  fai*  awaj,  and  leave  their  bones  to 
bleach  under  burning  suns  and  on  a  strange  soil. 

Who  among  us  does  not  know  of  some  fair  friend,  whose 
cheek  daily  grows  whiter,  and  whose  frame  is  growing  more 
and  more  attenuated?  She  utters  no  lamentation;  she 
breathes  no  complaint ;  but  we  all  know  her  heart  is  break- 
ing, and  that  one  image  is  ever  before  her,  and  that  is  of  one 
who  died  alone  by  the  knife  of  the  assassin.  Who  can  not 
point  to  some  sorrowing  widow,  who,  after  struggling  on  in 
poverty  and  loneliness  for  many,  many  weary  months,  just 
as  she  expected  to  welcome  back  her  husband,  enriched  by 
the  fruits  of  honest  toil,  she  hears  his  corpse  was  buried  in 
the  deep  sea ;  and  of  his  dearly-won  gold,  there  is  none  to 
give  account.  How  many  families  around  us  are  bereaved 
of  some  dearly-loved  member,  who,  smitten  with  the  desire 
of  sudden  riches,  went  away  and  died  ?  Who  has  not  heard 
of  little  infants,  fatherless  and  motherless,  cast  on  the  freez- 
ing charities  of  the  votaries  of  Mammon,  and  of  fair  young 
girls,  left  to  grow  into  womanhood  among  imprincipled  men, 
and  with  none  to  counsel  them  ?  And  wq  are  forced  to  re- 
member the  wailing  of  despair  mingles  with  the  shouts  of 
exultation. 

And  comedy,  too,  could  excite  the  merry  laughter,  if  we 
could  laugh  at  the  follies  of  our  kind.  She  would  tell  of  the 
strange  vagaries  of  some  who,  finding  themselves  suddenly 
rich,  try  to  be  suddenly  great;  of  would-be  ladies,  who, 
while  their  husbands  are  toiling  in  the  mines,  spend  their 
remittances  in  a  premature  attempt  at  fashionable  extrava- 
gance, and  then  sink  into  poverty  deeper  than  before ;  and 
of  newly-fledged  gentlemen  and  ladies  overacting  their  parts, 
to  the  infinite  merriment  of  the  lookers-on. 

And  yet,  after  all  that  can  be  said,  California  offers  great 
inducements  to  the  hardy  adventurer,  and  many  have  re- 
turned not  only  rich,  but  capable  of  making  a  judicious  use 
of  their  wealth. 

San  Francisco,  the   commercial   emporium   of  Western 


156  SAN     FEANCISCO. 

America,  on  account  of  its  position  and  natural  advantages, 
seems  destined  to  rise  to  a  degree  of  wealth  and  importance 
beyond  human  power  to  estimate  at  present.  It  is  situated 
on  what  is  called  the  Liner  Bay,  extending  from  the  shore 
along  the  base,  and  up  the  gently-sloping  sides  of  a  mount- 
ain ;  and  being  in  latitude  38  degrees  north,  is  said  to  enjoy 
one  of  the  finest  and  healthiest  climates  in  the  world.  A 
more  charming  site  could  scarcely  be  imagined — overlook- 
ing, as  it  does,  its  capacious  and  picturesque  harbor.  The 
bay,  almost  encircled  by  mountains,  and  containing  in  its 
center  an  island  of  indescribable  beauty.  The  entrance  to 
the  bay  is  by  a  strait,  varying  not  much  from  a  mile  in 
width,  flowing  between  two  bold  capes,  or,  rather,  promon- 
tories, appro])riately  named  the  Golden  Gates. 

Not  the  least  exciting  feature  in  this  glorious  picture  is  the 
immense  fleet  of  vessels,  of  every  description,  and  of  almost 
every  nation,  constantly  to  be  seen  here.  Formerly,  they 
cast  anchor  nearly  a  mile  from  the  shore,  and  discharged 
their  cargoes  by  means  of  "lighters;"  but  ample  docks  and 
wharves  now  obviate  that  inconvenience. 

The  city  has  had  several  very  destructive  fires,  but  each 
time  it  has  been  rebuilt  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  new 
improvements  added ;  so  that  the  confusion  and  irregu- 
larity prevailing  at  first  is  giving  place  to  wide,  well-built 
streets,  and  the  frail  wood  and  canvas  buildings  to  others 
more  elegant  and  substantial.  Of  course,  a  population  so 
made  up  must  present  a  great  diversity  of  character,  habits, 
and  modes  of  living ;  but  society  is  gradually  shaping  itsell 
into  form  and  order.  Churches  of  diflerent  denominations 
have  been  erected,  and  are  liberally  sustained  and  atteneled. 
Excellent  academies  and  public  schools  have  been  organ- 
ized, and  are  well  supported.  Law  and  order  are  taking  the 
place  of  anarchy  and  misrule,  and  the  stranger  now  finds 
himself  not  only  among  a  polished  but  a  Christian  com- 
munity. 

Of  the  amount  of  population  it  is  difiicult  to  give  a  correct 
statement,  owing  to  the  constant  influx  of  emigrants  and  the 
unstable  condition  of  many  of  the  inhabitants.  Such  is  San 
Francisco  at  the  present  time. 


SACEAMENTO     CITY. 


Sacramento  has  risen  from  tlie  wilderness,  and  taken  an 
important  station  among  the  cities  of  the  western  world, 
with  a  celerity  which  forcibly  recalls  the  old  story  of  Alad- 
din and  his  wonderful  lamp.     It  stands  at  the  junction  of 
tlie  Sacramento  and  American  rivers,  150  miles  from  San 
Francisco,  and  100  above  the  mouth  of  the  San  Joacium. 
Sacramento  being  the  grand  starting  point  for  nearly  all  the 
miners,  and  as  manv  of  them  procure  at  this  place  their 
regular  mining  outfit,  as  also  on  their  return  to  civihzation 
their  more  Christian-looking  habiliments  and  comforts  ;  this 
would,  of  itself,  produce  a  considerable  business.     Besides, 
until  recently,  it  was  the  grand  point  of  intercommunication 
between  the  miners  and  their  friends  in  their  various  local- 
ities.     These,  with  many  collateral  circumstances,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  fertility  of  the  lands  lying  along  the  Sacra- 
mento, may  account  for  the  unparalleled  growth  of  this 
young  giant,  which  has  scarcely  now  completed  its    sixth 

For,  if  we  recollect  rightly,  in  the  early  spring  of  1849, 
the  first  house  was  not  built  in  Sacramento,  and  if,  per- 
chance, the  solitary  wayfarer  spread  his  little  tent  there  lor 
the  night,  packs  of  coyotas,  or  little  prairie  wolves,  made 
the  night  hideous  with  their  bowlings,  venturing  even  to 
st^.al  his  provisions  close  by  his  bed ;  neither  was  it  a  mat- 
ter of  great  surprise  if,  on  rolling  up  his  blanket,  he  found  a 
rattlesnake  coiled  under  it,  willing  to  share  the  warmth  of 
his  strange  bedfellow. 

In  the  autumn  of  1849,  the  "  city''  was  said  to  number  near- 


158  SACKAMENTO     OITT. 

ly  one  liundred  houses  and  tents,  many  of  tliem  of  the  latter 
class ;  and  even  the  houses  were  many  of  them  canvas.  A 
facetious  traveler,  visiting  this  place  in  l!^ovember  of  the  same 
year,  thus  describes  his  entree  :  "  We  were  just  in  time  to  find 
one  tree  unoccupied,  consequently  settled  down,  and  went 
to  housekeeping.  We  designed  to  remain  in  town  until  the 
next  mornins;.  At  this  time  there  were  about  one  hundred 
houses  and  tents  in  town ;  but  it  seemed  every  man  landed 
with  a  house,  and  put  it  up  the  same  day.  Our  brig  had  no 
less  than  thirteen  on  board,  finished,  even  to  the  glazing. 
Goods  of  every  description  were  piled  on  the  river's  bank, 
awaiting  the  carmen.  The  owners  were,  in  many  instances, 
obliged  to  erect  a  temporary  shelter,  and  sell  them  (-n  the 
ground."" 

In  1850,  Sacramento  had,  indeed,  become  a  large  city, 
with  a  population  of  over  15,000.  The  streets  were  regu- 
larly laid  out^  crossing  at  right  angles,  and  some  of  them 
closely  built  for  over  a  mile ;  of  course,  not  all  of  granite 
palaces.  Vessels  of  the  largest  class,  in  considerable  num- 
bers, lay  moored  to  the  bold,  precipitous  banks  of  the  river. 
The  steamer  Senator  was  now  running  regular  trips  from 
San  Francisco,  landing  her  passengers  on  the  bank  by 
means  of  planks,  thirty  dollars  being  the  price  of  a  passage 
to  San  Francisco.  Boarding  and  eating-houses  had  become 
abundant,  but  provisions  were  uncommonly  dear,  ten  dollars 
being  no  unusual  demand  for  a  comfortable  meal.  Unfor- 
tunately, too,  gambling  and  drinking  establishments,  with 
others  of  a  kindred  character,  were  even  more  numerous. 
Places  where  hundreds  on  hundreds  of  young  men,  and 
even  old  men  and  boys,  w^ere  stripped  of  their  hard-earned 
treasures,  and  irretrievably  ruined  in  health  as  well  as  for- 
tune. Others,  after  squandering,  in  a  few  hours,  the  fruits 
of  a  whole  season's  toil,  got  drunk,  and  went  back  to  the 
mines  to  recommence  their  labors.  And  yet  those  who  had 
steadiness  to  profit  by  the  prosperity  of  the  second  summer, 
were  successful  beyond  all  calculation.  If  many  fortunes 
were   lost   bv  the  reckless  and  imprudent,   so  also   many 


*  From  a  very  interesting  and  amusing  work  entitled,  "California  Illus- 
trated 5"  pul.lished  by  Pv.  T  Young,  Fulton-street,  N.  Y. 


SACKAMENTO    CITY.  159 

were  won  by  the  energetic  and  tlirifty.  Every  thing  was 
in  a  frenzy  of  excitement,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
natural  than  the  reaction  that  followed  the  succeeding  win- 
ter. As  the  rainy  season  came  on,  business  grew  slack ;  the 
river  was  swollen  by  heavy  rains,  and  the  city  having  no 
artificial  protection  from  its  encroachments,  the  most 
gloomy  forebodings  began  to  be  indulged.  The  country 
(for  roads  were  not)  became  impassable  for  teams,  and  the 
landscape  was  dotted  on  all  sides  with  heavy  vehicles  with 
wheels  sunk  in  the  mud  and  abandoned.  At  length  came 
the  dreaded  catastrophe.  Most  of  the  city  was  submerged, 
and  entire  streets  swept  by  the  turbid  and  rushing  waters, 
llany  of  the  frail  tenements  were  carried  away,  and  still 
more  had  to  be  abandoned;  every  thing  had  a  look  of  ruin 
and  desolation,  and  every  brow  wore  an  aspect  of  sadness 
and  discomfort. 

But  the  gloomiest  season  has  an  end,  and  so  had  this :  the 
early  coming  spring  clothed  the  scene  with  unspeakable 
loveliness.  Flowers,  of  hues  and  splendor  to  us  unimagined, 
lifted  their  beautiful  heads  on  all  sides ;  fields,  which  only  a 
little  before  seemed  one  vast  "Slough  of  Despond,"  were 
covered  with  the  richest  mantle  of  herbage.  The  river  had 
retired  to  its  channel,  and  the  streets  were  once  more  capa- 
ble of  sustaining  the  weight  of  the  busy  multitude,  while  a 
variety  of  birds,  of  rare  song  and  plumage,  made  every 
place  vocal  with  love  and  harmony.  Business  again  became 
exceedingly  prosperous,  and  the  hopes  of  the  inhabitants 
rose  in  proportion.  But  a  new  calamity  awaited  the  young 
city:  the  cholera  came  upon  it  with  frightful  malignity, 
sweeping  away  its  multitude  of  victims  in  a  few  days,  so 
that  Sacramento  seemed  likely  only  to  be  a  city  of  the  dead. 
But  in  time  the  pestilence  was  stayed,  and  soon  after  the 
fire  burst  out  among  them,  and  she  who  had  gathered  up 
her  strength  from  plague  and  flood,  now  saw  her  fairest 
portions  lie  a  smouldering  heap  of  ashes. 

Yet  recuperative  energy,  nowhere  more  apparent  than  in 
California,  was  yet  alive,  and  soon  repaired  the  mischief; 
when  the  "  dogs  of  civil  war"  were  let  loose,  threatening  to 
devour  the    sturdy   youngling.      Tliese   were    happily   re- 


160  SACRAMENTO    CITT. 

strained,  and  Sacramento  went  steadily  omvard.  We  have 
not  time  to  follow  her  progress  step  by  step,  or,  ratlier,  we 
should  sa}^  stride  by  stride.  We  have  spoken  of  the  first 
years  of  her  history,  though  recent  years  they  be,  only  to 
contrast  the  past  with  the  present.  After  four  years,  in 
which  she  has  been  in  turn  desolated  by  flood  and  pesti- 
lence, consumed  by  fire,  and  shook  by  civil  commotion, 
we  will  look  at  her  as  she  stands  in  her  pride  of  wealth 
and  power.  We  will  look  at  her  extensive  levees,  her 
commodious  wharves,  her  noble  lines  of  storehouses,  her 
magnificent  post-ofiice,  her  elegant  and  spacious  church, 
and  other  public  buildings  ;  her  fine  hotels,  and  her  palace- 
like private  residences,  and  who  can  forbear  astonishment? 
Yarious  causes  have  combined  to  produce  such  results : 
wealth,  intellect,  energy,  and  a  favoring  climate ;  so  that, 
judging  from  the  past,  none  may  foretell  to  what  magnifi- 
cence these  new  western  cities  may  arrive.  Yet,  even  here 
there  are  some  drawbacks,  as  well  as  much  that  is  desir- 
able. In  a  society  made  up  of  such  a  heterogeneous  mass, 
assembled  from  almost  every  nation,  there  must  be  discord- 
ant elements,  and  it  must  take  time  for  gaining  solidity, 
form,  and  shape.  Yice  abounds  in  unblushing  efifrontery. 
During  the  long  summers,  w^hen  for  several  months  rain  is 
scarcely  known,  the  fierce  rays  of  an  almost  vertical  sun 
scorch  the  earth  to  barrenness,  and  the  air  becomes  filled 
with  clouds  of  dust,  which  insinuates  itself  everywhere. 
Yenomous  reptiles  are  plenty,  and  insects  and  vermin  abun- 
dant and  troublesome,  at  least,  in  many  places.  All  these 
may,  indeed,  be  termed  small  evils,  but  in  the  scale  of 
human  comfort  they  have  a  place,  and  no  inconsiderable 
one,  though  certainly  not  sufiicient  to  retard  the  growth  of 
a  city.  But  to  return  to  its  resources,  we  have  now  be- 
fore us  some  of  its  daily  papers  embellished  with  fine  en- 
gravings, and,  in  all  respects,  comparing  favorably  with 
any  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic.  These  contain  advertise- 
ments of  various  splendid  steamboats,  plying  between  Sac- 
ramento and  other  places,  and  at  rates  of  passage  about  sim- 
ilar to  those  on  the  Hudson,  the  charge  from  San  Francisco 
beino'  a  dollar  and  a  half.     Mention  is  also  made  of  vast 


DIES     IR^.  161 

quantities  of  melons,  with  otiier  fruit  and  vegetables,  com- 
ing  into  the  market.  These  iionrish  abundantly,  and  grow 
to^a  size  and  perfection  wholly  unknown  in  a  northern 
climate.  Many  fine  plantations  are  already  laid  out  along 
the  Sacramento,  and  the  cultivators  are  richly  repaid  for 
their  labor,  especially  where  irrigation  is  employed.  Grain 
is  said  to  do  well,  and  they  already  speak  of  erecting  mills 
for  supplying  theuiselves  with  flour,  so  that  actual  experi- 
ment amply  proves  that  the  wealth  of  Sacramento  will  not 
all  arise  from  the  mineral  riches  of  California. 

Yet,  magnificent  as  has  been  the  result  of  western  enter- 
prise, it  were  well  for  all,  before  they  rush  in  hot  haste 
from  families,  and  fi'iends,  and  comfortable  homes,  and 
moderately  prosperous  business,  to  pause,  and  remember, 
"The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  the  battle  to  the 
strong,  not  riches  to  men  of  understanding."  Thousands  of 
nameless  graves  cover  each  a  history  of  unendurable  toil, 
and  sorrow,  and  disappointment ;  and  a  host  of  bereaved 
families  turn  their  tearful  eyes  to  California,  and  hear  its 
name  with  a  shudder,  as  the  great  Moloch,  to  whom  have 
been  sacrificed  their  fondest  hopes  and  theii'  most  cherished 
treasures. 


DIES    IR-E, 

BY    HORACE    DRESSER,    ESQ. 

"  Ye  have  heard  of  the  patience  of  Job." 


Theke  is  feasting  in  the  land  of  Uz.  The  patriarch's  sons 
are  holding  high  festival.  The  banquet  hath  brought 
to2:ether  the  whole  brotherhood  of  the  house  of  him  who' 
feareth  God  and  shunneth  evil.  Tlie  daughters  also  of  the 
Uzite  worshiper  join  the  assemblage  of  his  sons,  and  eat 
and  drink  with  their  brethren.  Joyous  gathering!  But 
there  is  one  who  hath  fears  for  the  festivities  of  that  family. 
The  goblet,  red  with  wine,  hath  freely  gone  around  that 
circle,  and  hearts  that  should  have  praised,  perchance,  have 
cursed  Jehovah. 


162  DIES     IKJ3. 

At  early  morn  an  altar  smokes  in  tlic  far-off  distance  at 
the  paternal  home.  Ten  times  the  blood  of  bullocks  slain, 
crimsons  its  2)lace,  and  offerings-burnt  are  thereon  made 
for  the  feasters'  sins.  Eut  hecatombs  of  victim-beasts  in 
bloody  sacrifice  for  sin  now  can  not  save  from  doom  the 
guilty  sons. 

A  herald  in  his  haste  hath  now  arrived  at  the  threshold 
of  his  home,  and  tells  the  fearful  father  of  the  havoc  made 
among  the  hundreds  of  his  herds,  and  servants  slain  by  edge 
of  Sabean  swords.  And  while  the  tale  is  yet  untold,  there 
comes  another  still  with  revelation  that  the  fiery  bolts  of 
heaven  have  fallen  fast  upon  the  flocks,  and  them  that  kept 
their  watch,  and  burned  them  all.  Anon,  and  in  succession 
quick,  another  heralds  forth  that  lawless  robber-bands,  from 
off  the  Chaldee  hills,  have  captured  all  the  burden-beasts, 
and  made  their  swords  drink  deeply  in  their  keepers' 
blood.  This  hardly  said,  and  yet  again  a  messenger 
comes  in  with  word  that  sweeping  winds  from  out  the 
wilderness  have  leveled  low  his  first-born's  house,  and  all 
his  sons  are  dead  beneath  its  ruins.     Catastrophe  how  sad  ! 

The  patriarch  sire  hath  worshiped.  With  shaven  head 
and  robes  all  rent,  the  man  of  God  is  prostrate  on  the 
earth.  Evanished  now  are  all  his  household  joys — his  hun- 
dred herds — his  thousand  fiocks — yet  there  comes  forth 
from  the  fallen  man  an  utterance  of  words  of  wisdom  :  The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord  ! 

The  great  man  of  the  East  hath  sat  himself  down  among 
the  ashes.  The  Evil  One  hath  smitten  sorely,  and  he  hath 
taken  a  potsherd  for  a  comforter.  Curse  God  and  die,  is  the 
counsel  of  the  mother  of  his  children — but  he  heedeth  her 
not,  and  albeit  retaineth  his  integrity.  Saith  not  the 
sufferer  wisely  in  the  day  of  his  affliction — shall  we  receive 
good  at  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  and  shall  we  not  receive 
evil  also  at  his  hands  ? 

A  friend  cometh  from  Teman.  The  Shuhite  partaker  of 
his  hospitality  hath  also  heard  of  his  afl^liction,  and  hasten- 
etli  to  his  habitation.  They  meet  there  the  N^aamathite,  on 
like  errand,  come  to  mourn  with  him  and  to  comfort  him. 


DIES     lE^.  1G3 


Tliey  gaze  from  far,  and  neither  knows  tlie  Satan-stricken. 
■\Vitli  ^mantles  rent  apart,  and  sprinkled  dust  upon  tlieir 
heads,  they  lift  their  voices  high  toward  heaven  and  weep 
aloud.  Howbeit,  so  great  his  grief,  seven  days  and  nights 
they  speak  no  word  to  him  they  visit.  Wise  men  are  they, 
withholdincr  words  from  him  crushed  down  to  earth  with 


sorrow. 


A  voice  hath  broken  in  upon  the  seven  days  silence. 
Long  pent-up  grief  hath  burst  the  soul's  strong  barriers,  and 
words  now  tell  how  full  hath  been  the  fountain : 

0  that  the  day  might  have  perished  in  which  I  was  born ; 

And  the  night  which  said,  "  A  male  child  is  conceived  !"' 

That  day— let  it  be  darkness  ! 

Let  not  God  inquire  after  it  from  on  high! 

Yea,  let  not  the  light  shine  upon  it ! 

Let  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death  stain  it ; 

Let  a  cloud  dwell  upon  it ; 

Let  whatever  darkens  the  day  terrify  it. 

That  night— let  darkness  seize  upon  it ! 

Let  it  not  rejoice  among  the  days  of  the  year  ! 

Let  it  not  come  into  the  number  of  the  months  ! 

0  that  night !  let  it  be  desolate  ! 

Let  there  come  in  no  sound  of  joy  ! 

Let  them  who  curse  the  day  curse  it ; 

They  who  are  skillful  to  rouse  up  Leviathan ' 

Let  the  stars  of  its  twilight  be  darkened  ; 

Let  it  long  for  the  light,  and  there  be  none ; 

Neither  let  it  see  the  eyelids  of  the  morning ! 

Tlie  Busite  vouth,  the  son  of  Barachel,  hath  heard  the 
words  of  him  Vho  cursed  his  day,  so  deep  his  sorrow,  and 
listened  well  to  answers  given,  by  those  who  came  to  com- 
fort him.  His  kindled  wrath  hath  ardent  grown,  because 
the  God,  whose  rule  is  over  all,  hath  not  been  justified,  in 
these  his  days  of  visitation ;  and  still,  because  his  aged 
friends  have  found  no  answer  to  his  words,  and  yet^  con- 
demn to  2:uiltiness  the  man  of  sorrow.  The  youthful  visitor 
hath  weUrebuked  the  old  men's  lack  of  wisdom,  and  vindi- 
cated all  the  wavs  of  God  with  man. 

A  voice  from  out  the  whirlwind  hath  gone  forth  among 
the  interlocutors,  and  words  have  ceased  among  them 
now  I     Its  utterance  hath  shut  the  mouths   of  men,  who 


164  LIGHT     AND     DAGUEEREOTYPE. 

"v^ould  tliat  otlicrs  think  tlicy  knew  tlie  "ways  of  tlie  Al- 
miglity  One — and  luimblcd  deep  in  dust  tlie  liauglitiness 
of  man  !  He  wlio  just  now  himself  had  justified,  in  all  hia 
wavs.  in  softened,  subdued  accents  saith  : 

Behold,  I  am  vile  !    "What  can  I  answer  thee  ! 
I  will  lay  my  hand  upon  my  mouth  : 
Once  did  I  speak ;  but  I  will  not  answer  again : 
Yea,  twice ;  but  I  will  add  no  more. 


LIGHT  AND   DAGUEREEOTYPE, 

BY    C.    WIXGATK. 

"  Hail,  holy  Light  I  offspriug  cf  Heaven's  first-bom." — ^Miltox. 

The  nature  of  light  has  long  been  a  subject  of  controversy, 
and  the  most  enlightened  minds  have  difiered  greatly  on  this 
point.  By  some  it  has  been  regarded  as  a  substcmce  or  matter^ 
by  others  as  a  fluids  i3artaking  of  the  nature  of  electricity 
and  magnetism.  Sir  Isaac  J^ewton  tanght  that  light  was  an. 
einission  oi ^yarticles  from  luminous  bodies,  while  Young  and 
Fresnel  regarded  it  as  the  mere  undulations  of  a  highly  sub- 
tile medium. 

Sufficient  proof  to  settle  the  question  has  not  been  ad- 
vanced by  either  party,  and  the  source  and  nature  of  this 
wondrous  working  agency  is  still  as  much  a  mystery  as  when 
the  alchemists  of  olden  time  taught  that  the  precious  metals, 
gold  and  silver,  differed  from  the  baser  metals,  iron  and  lead, 
merely  by  the  greater  or  less  abundance  of  light ;  or  when 
Kircher  published  that  a  certain  stone  was  found  in  India, 
which  showed  the  changes  of  the  moon's  form  by  the  increase 
or  decrease  of  a  certain  spot  of  light  upon  it. 

As  the  science  of  chemistry  became  better  understood, 
the  knowledge  of  the  principle  of  the  solar  ray  became  pro- 
gressively developed.  The  celebrated  chemist,  Scheele,  in  a 
series  of  careful  experiments,  exhibited  the  operation  of  the 
prism  in  dividing  the  solar  ray  into  its  component  parts, 
and  showed  the  effects  of  these  different  rays  upon  the  nitrate 
of  silver.     Dr.  Priestly,  in  his  well-known  investigations 


LIGKT     AND     DAGUEKKEOTTPE.  155 

concerniug  tlie  iufinence  of  liglit  upon  plants,  laid  the  foun- 
dation for  many  of  the  most  important  discoveries  of  modern 
times,  and  indicated,  in  a  novel  manner,  the  dependence  of 
the  vegetable  kingdom  on  the  quickening  influences  of  the 
streams  of  sunlight.  Light  was  thus  distinctly  perceived  to 
possess  the  power  of  setting  in  action  certain  chemical 
changes,  although  the  existence  in  the  sunbeam  of  a  distinct 
class  of  rays,  producing  such  results,  was  not  clearly  shown. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  an  elaborate  re- 
search was  commenced  by  Count  Rumford,  on  the  chemical 
properties  of  sunlight,  in  the  course  of  which  were  de- 
veloped several  remarkable  phenomena  occurring  in  sub- 
stances exposed  to  light. 

The  iirst  experimental  evidence  of  the  existence  of  a  third 
principle  in  the  sunbeam,  in  addition  to  its  heat  and  light, 
was  made  by  Eitter,  of  Jena.  He  found  that  every  ray  was 
a  combination  of  three  distinct  principles,  capable  of  being 
separated  from  each  other,  and  which  are  now  known  as 
light,  heat,  and  chemical  action,  or  activism.  When  a  ray 
of  light  falls  u23on  a  prism,  placed  in  a  darkened  chamber, 
it  becomes  decomposed,  and  forms  on  a  screen,  suitably 
placed,  a  belt  or  band  of  yellow,  blue,»and  red,  to  which  we 
give  the  name  oi  ]rnsmatiG  spectnon,  and  from  which  all 
other  colors  are  produced.  By  j)lacing  a  delicate  thermome- 
ter in  difierent  parts  of  the  spectrum,  it  will  be  found  to  in 
dicate  difierent  degrees  of  heat.  If  the  blue  ray  indicates 
56  degrees  Fahrenheit,  then  the  yellow  will  raise  the  heat  to 
Q'2i  degrees,  and  the  red  to  Y9  degrees. 

If  instead  of  a  thermometer,  we  use  a  peice  of  paper  which 
has  been  soaked  in  a  chemical  solution,  it  will  be  found  to 
be  more  powerfully  acted  on  by  one  color  of  the  prismatic 
spectrum  than  by  tlie  others ;  and  that,  outside  of  the  violet 
rays,  are  a  class  of  rays  invisible  to  the  eye,  but  which  ex- 
ert a  more  powerful  chemical  influence  than  any  of  the 
others  ;  vdiile,  on  the  opposite  end  of  tlie  spectrum,  the  heat 
rays  are  found  in  a  greater  degree  than  elsewhere. 

That  different  colors  absorb  heat  with  more  or  less  readi- 
ness, was  shown  by  Dr.  Franklin,  by  placing  small  pieces  of 
cloth,  similar  in  thickness,  but  of  different  colors,  on  a  snow- 


1(j6  light    axd    daguerreotype. 

bank,  exposed  to  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun.  While  the 
white  cloth  i)roduced  no  change  on  the  snow,  the  black  had 
sunk  some  distance  into  it;  and,  in  every  case,  the  darker 
the  clotli,  the  more  was  the  heat  absorbed,  thus  clearly  show- 
ing  that,  in  hot  weather,  a  white  dress  is  much  cooler  than 
any  other. 

Of  tlie  influence  of  light  upon  vegetation  we  have  the 
strongest  proof  When  a  potato  germinates  in  the  dark,  its 
shoots  are  white  and  brittle,  but  let  it  be  exposed  to  the  light 
for  a  few  days,  and  it  soon  recovers  a  healthy  appearance. 
If  an  opening  is  made,  so  as  to  admit  a  ray  of  light  into  a 
room,  a  plant  will  turn  its  leaves  and  shoots  directly  toward 
the  light,  and  will  grow  rapidly  in  that  direction ;  but  if  left 
entirely  in  the  dark,  soon  witliers  and  dries  up. 

The  chemical  influence  of  light  may  readily  be  demonstrated 
by  its  action  in  fading-colored  cloth,  as  it  is  well  known  that 
the  continued  action  of  the  sun's  rays  will  soon  dim  the 
brightest  colors.  If  a  piece  of  camphor  is  dissolved,  and 
left  in  a  bottle  to  evaporate,  the  crystals  will  be  found  most 
numerous  on  the  side  exposed  to  the  light ;  and  if  a  basin  of 
alum  dissolved  in  water  is  so  placed  that  one  half  of  it  is 
exposed  to  the  light,  and  the  other  half  is  covered  up,  the 
crystallization  will  take  j^lace  much  sooner  on  the  exposed 
part  than  on  the  other. 

Among  the  many  striking  and  important  discoveries  made 
in  modern  times  in  regard  to  light,  none  are  more  wonderful 
in  their  nature,  or  more  delightful  in  their  eflfects,  than  the 
art  of  photography,  or,  as  the  word  literally  signifies,  "  mak- 
ing pictures  by  the  sun."  The  first  application  of  the  solar 
rays  for  this  purpose  was  made  by  the  celebrated  Mr.  Wedge- 
wood,  in  1802  ;  the  j^reparation  employed  was  a  solution  of 
nitrate  of  silver,  applied  to  white  paper.  He  says:  "When 
the  shadow  of  any  figure  is  thrown  upon  the  prepared  sur- 
face, the  part  concealed  by  it  remains  white,  while  the  other 
parts  speedily  become  dark."  The  picture  thus  j^roduced 
must  be  kept  in  the  dark,  and  viewed  only  by  candle-light ; 
otherwise,  it  is  soon  acted  upon  by  the  light,  and  disappears. 
Such  was  the  commencement  of  the  art  of  photography,  an 
art  wliich  is  now  known  in  every  part  of  the  civilized  globe, 


LIGHT     AND     D  A  G  U  E  R  R  E  0  T  T  r  E  .  167 

and  win  ell  employs  in  this  eoiintry  alone  some  twenty  or 
thirty  thousand  persons,  either  in  its  direct  application,  or 
in  making  the  various  materials  employed  in  the  business, 
and  in  which  a  capital  of  four  million  dollars  is  invested. 

Pictures  produced  by  this  process  are  generally  known  as 
Daguerreotypes,  from  M.  Daguerre,  a  French  artist,  who 
"was  the  first  to  exhibit  pictures  of  this  kind,  although  the 
great  principles  on  which  the  art  is  founded  were  known 
long  before. 

One  of  these  principles  was  discovered  by  Porta,  of 
jSTaples,  who  found  that  by  admitting  light  into  a  darkened 
room,  through  a  convex  lens,  placed  in  an  opening  made  in  a 
window-shutter,  the  images  of  outward  objects  were  painted 
on  the  opposite  wall,  in  the  same  way  as  the}'  are  formed  on 
the  retina  of  the  eye.  Mr.  ^Vedgewood  made  the  next  step, 
which  was  to  learn  that  when  this  imao'e,  thus  formed  by  the 
lens,  or  camera  obscura,  as  it  was  called,  was  thrown  on 
paper  covered  by  nitrate  of  silver,  it  produced  a  picture  of 
the  object.  The  third  and  great  discovery,  without  which 
all  others  would  have  been  useless,  was  made  bv  the  com- 
bined  efforts  of  Daguerre  and  Xiepce. 

Xiepce  was  a  retired  merchant  of  Chalons,  who  devoted 
liis  leisure  hours  to  scientific  pursuits,  and  his  first  experi- 
ments on  this  subject  were  commenced  in  1814.  He  had 
discovered  the  jn'ocess  of  making  copies  of  engravings,  and 
learned  how  to  make  his  pictures  permanent,  a  point  which 
had  baflled  both  Wedgewood  and  Sir  Humphrey  Davy.  But 
he  was  unable  to  do  more  than  copy ;  he  could  not  create  a 
new  picture,  for  the  want  of  some  chemical  substance  suf- 
ficiently sensible  to  the  action  of  light.  At  this  stage  of  his 
discovery,  he  became  acquainted  with  Daguerre,  a  painter 
of  eminence,  who  had  been  engaged  in  experimenting  on 
the  same  subject.  These  two  formed  a  partnership,  and,  by 
their  united  labors,  soon  overcame  every  difficulty  ;  and  in 
January,  1839,  the  discovery  was  made  known,  and  speci- 
mens were  exhibited  to  the  scientific  world  of  Paris.  The 
extraordinary  character  of  tliese  pictures,  their  extreme 
fidelity,  and  their  minuteness,  produced  the  greatest  sur- 
prise, and  all  Europe  was  astonished  that  light  could  be 


168  LIGHT     AND     DAGTJEEKEOTYrE. 

made  to  delineate  on  a  solid  body  pictures  of  such  trutli  and 
delicacy  as  to  defy  the  highest  efforts  of  the  painter's  skill. 
The  Fi-ench  Legislature  rewarded  the  author  of  this  discov- 
ery with  a  pension  of  §2,000  a  year  for  life,  and  gave  his 
art  to  the  world.  Before  the  process  of  Daguerre  had  been 
published,  Mr.  Talbot,  in  England,  had  discovered  a  mode 
of  taking  pictures,  by  the  action  of  light  on  chemically  pre- 
pared paper,  a  process  wdiicli  has  been  named  Tolbotype, 
after  its  inventor,  and  which  is  daily  coming  more  and  more 
into  use. 

As  many  of  our  readers  may  not  be  familiar  with  the  pro- 
cess by  which  Daguerreotypes  are  produced,  a  brief  descrip- 
tion of  it  may  be  interesting :  The  first  thing  to  be  done  is 
to  23repare  a  plate,  composed  of  copper,  faced  with  a  thin 
coating  of  pure  silver,  and  polished  wdth  the  greatest  possi- 
ble care.  On  the  accuracy  with  which  this  is  done  depends 
the  whole  thing.  The  plate  is  then  exposed  to  the  vapor  of 
iodine,  and  ]3laced  in  the  camera,  a  box  containing  a  large 
convex  lens,  by  which  the  light  is  condensed,  and  brought 
to  a  focus  on  a  screen  placed  behind  it.  Having  remained 
in  the  camera  from  ten  seconds  to  a  minute,  or  more,  accord- 
ing to  the  brightness  of  the  day,  the  plate  is  removed,  and 
exposed  to  the  action  of  the  vapor  of  mercury,  by  w^hich 
the  image  formed  on  the  silver  is  developed.  In  this  state 
of  the  process  the  plate  has  a  dark,  purple  color,  and  tho 
picture  is  readily  destroyed  by  the  light.  Tlie  grand  diffi- 
culty to  be  remedied,  and  for  which  Daguerre  labored  so 
long,  is  to  fix  the  image  produced  by  the  camera,  and  render 
it  proof  against  the  action  of  light.  This  is  accomplished  by 
washing  the  plate  in  a  solution  of  the  hypo-sulphate  of  soda, 
by  which  the  iodine  is  expelled,  and,  finally,  heating  it  in 
a  bath  of  the  chloride  of  gold,  by  which  a  thin  transparent 
coating  of  gold  is  spread  over  the  entire  plate,  and  all  change 
from  the  effects  of  light  entirely  prevented. 


There  is  a  certain  warmth  of  gratitude,  which  not  only 
acquits  us  of  fiivors  received,  but  even,  while  we  are  repay- 
ing vrliat  we  owe,  converts  our  creditors  into  debtors. 


time's    soliloquy.  169 


TIME'S     SOLILOQUY. 

BY    ORRIN    P.    ALLEN. 


When  tlie  radiant  morn  of  creation  drove  darkness  Irom 
tlie  earth,  I  was  tliere  ;  then  was  I  born.     I  rose  upon  the 
pinions  of  that  bright  morn,  and  canght  the  crystal  dew- 
drops  as  they  fell  and  sparkled  on  the  green  yerdure  of  the 
fairy  lawns.     I  listened  to  the  sweet  carol  of  the  feathered 
songsters,  whose  joyons  notes  rose  npon  the  wings  of  the 
soft  zephyrs,  and  were  wafted  far  away  throngh  the  solitudes 
of  the  waving  forests.     'Mid  the  beauty  and  loveliness  of 
Paradise  I  gazed  out  upon  the  young  world,  radiant  with 
celestial  smiles.     Long  before  the  foot  of  man  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  wilderness,  I  gazed  out  upon  its  numberless 
rivers  flashing  in  light,  and  reflecting  the  eftulgent  rays  of 
the   sun   like    a   thousand   diamonds   upon   their   bosoms. 
]^iao-ara  sent  up  its  thundering  anthem  in  the  solitudes  of 
the  western  wilderness,  for  thousands  of  years  before  the 
ear  of  man  listened  to  its  awful  roar.    Tlie  proud  Mississippi 
swept  its  turbid  waves  to  the  ocean,  and  the  strong  Atlantic 
beat  its  angry  surges  against  the  shores  of  an  unknown  con- 
tinent, and  none  were  there  to  listen  to  the  wild  melody 

but  I. 

The  blue  Mediterranean  heaved  its  gentle  waters  against 

its  sunny  shores,  long  before  the  rude  barque  of  man  broke 

its  smooU  surface  ;  the  sun  smiled  upon  Italy's  lovely  clime 

for  ages,  and  none  gazed  upon  the  enchanting  scene  but  I. 

The  beautiful  gazelle  bounded  over  the  plains,  and  drank  at 

the  crvstal  streams  which  meandered  through  the  verdant 

meads^  ages  before  an  arm  was  raised  to  injure  or  make 

them  afraid.     At  even's  gentle  hour  the  bright  stars  blazed 

in  the  forehead  of  the  sky,  with  no  eye  to  admire  their 

beauty  but  mine.     And  when  the  progenitors  of  the  human 

race  were   placed  in  Paradise,  I  was  there,  and  hovered 

around  their  ambrosial  bower,  and  attended  their  steps  as 

they  wandered  forth,  liand  in  hand,  by  the  side  of  the  gush- 

^  10 


170  time's   soliloquy. 

ing  fountains,  or  reclined,  beneath  tlie  shade  of  Lowering 
ehns  whicli  overhung  some  silver  cascade. 

But  when  bj  disobedience  they  were  driven  forth  from 
their  eljsian  home,   and   were  forever  excluded  from  the 
blissful  haunts  of  Paradise,  by  the  flaming  cherubim  who 
guarded  the  entrance  with  vigilant  care,  I  attended  them  on 
their   lonely  journey,   and,  instead   of  flowers,   I   strewed 
thorns  in  their  pathway,  and  multiplied  cares  and  sorrows 
at  every  step.     I  dimmed  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  nev,'- 
made  world,  even  in  its  infancy,  and  sowed  the  seeds  of  dis- 
solution and  decay  in  all  of  its  thousand  forms  of  beauty. 
And  when  man  multiplied  upon  the  earth,  I  was  ever  intent 
on  working  their  ruin,  and  demolishing  the  labor  of  their 
hands.     At  length  coiTuption  spread  over  the  earth  like  a 
sweeping  tornado,  and  mankind  having  incurred  the  wrath 
of  Jehovah,  were  threatened  with  destruction  by  an  univer- 
sal deluge  which  would  destroy  all  vestiges  of  mankind,  ex- 
cept one  solitary  family.     But  they  heeded  not  the  warning, 
and  at  length  the  heavens  were  black  with  tempests,  and  the 
storm  of  wrath  descended  with  awfiil  fury  upon  the  devoted 
world.      The   booming  thunder   rattled   through  the    dark 
chambers   of  the   sky,   and  the  terrific  lightning  gleamed 
along  the  black  outlines  of  the  swift-rolling  clouds,  and  all 
creation  shuddered  as  if  it  paused  upon  the  brink  of  ruin, 
and  I  almost  thought  that  my  existence  would  end  and  eter- 
nity begin ;  but  I  was  permitted  to  wing  my  flight  over  a 
submerged  world,  and  gaze  upon  its  changes  in  succeeding 
ages. 

Meanwhile  mankind  were  seized  with  consternation  as 
they  beheld  the  torrent  sweeping  over  their  rich  valleys,  and 
overwhelming  their  cities  and  villages;  in  vain  they 
ascended  the  highest  mountains,  for  soon  the  mighty  flood 
swept  over  the  highest  point,  and  consigned  them  all  to  an 
eternal  oblivion. 

Then  the  humble  ark  of  ]N'oah  rose  triumphantly  above 
the  dark-rolling  surges  of  the  mighty  abyss  of  waters,  and, 
guided  by  the  hand  of  Omnipotence,  rode  in  safety  over  the 
shoreless  ocean,  till  at  length,  when  the  waters  began  to 
subside,  it  rested  upon  the  mountains  of  Ararat. 


time's    soliloquy.  171 

Days  and  montlis  passed  on  ;  at  leugtli  the  waters  were 
dried  from  the  earth,  and  man  descended  from  the  resting- 
place  of  the  ark  into  the  phains  below.  Ah,  how  changed 
the  scene !  How  unlike  the  beautiful  earth  on  which  I  gazed 
in  the  first  radiant  morn  of  creation,  when  I  commienced  my 
flight ! 

The  once  lovely  plains  of  Paradise  were  divested  of  their 
beauty,  and  the  luxuriant  forests  were  swept  away  by  the 
swift  current  and  imbedded  in  the  earth ;  the  lofty  mount- 
ains, which  had  been  disfigured  by  the  merciless  flood, 
looked  down  upon  the  universal  wreck  in  mournful  and 
silent  grandeur,  while  nature  in  all  of  her  works  gave 
marks  of  a  mighty  change. 

But  I  soon  peopled  the  earth  with  numerous  nations,  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  mighty  empires  and  kingdoms; 
mighty  cities  rose  up  in  the  plains,  and  smiling  villages 
along  the  banks  of  the  rivers.  Babylon,  Palmyra,  Kineveh, 
Tyre,  Thebes,  and  Carthage,  each  rose  in  their  season,  flour- 
ished, and  fell ;  and  I  beheld  them  in  their  glory  and  decline. 
'Mid  all  their  magnificence,  glory,  and  wealth  I  was  in  their 
busy  streets,  and  crumbling  their  proudest  monuments  of 
glory  to  dust ;  and  now  scarce  a  vestige  is  left  to  mark  the 
place  where  once  they  stood  and  flourished,  except  here  and 
there  a  solitary  colonnade  or  gigantic  pyramid,  whose  gloomy 
forms  rise  above  the  sands  of  the  desert,  and  look  down  in 
mournful  grandeur  upon  the  desolation  around  them.  The 
gods  which  filled  their  splendid  temples  could  not  defend 
their  own  habitations,  much  less  their  vain  worshipers, 
against  my  power,  for  they  in  their  turn  I  crumbled  to  dust. 

"Mighty  Babylon  rose  and  flourished  in  proud  supremacy 
upon  the  ruins  of  conquered  nations ;  but  I  humbled  her 
pride  to  the  dust,  and  laid  her  proi.d  walls  and  toweriug  bat- 
tlements in  mouldering  ruins. 

Upon  the  magnificent  ruins  of  the  Babylonian  Empire  rose 
that  of  the  Persians,  under  the  mighty  energies  of  Cyrus, 
who  conquered  the  world. 

But  I  introduced  luxury  among  their  soldiers  which 
brought  on  efi'eminacy  and  love  of  ease ;  and  at  length  the 
bright  star  of  Persian  glory  set  *n  obscurity.     Then  Alexan 


time's   soliloquy. 


der  tlie  Grccat  came  upon  tlie  stage  of  action,  and  witli  Lis 
invincible  Greeks  lie  subdued  the  world.  But  this  proud 
monarch  was  forced  to  yield  to  my  power ;  the  glory  of  his 
arms  could  not  save  him,  nor  his  vast  conquests  preserve  his 
mighty  emp)ire  from  my  shocks.  For  at  length  the  resplen- 
dent glory  of  Greece,  which  had  dazzled  the  world  so  long, 
began  to  be  dimmed  by  the  bright  star  of  Kome,  which  soon 
rose  in  the  ascendency,  and  swayed  her  iron  scepter  over 
the  world. 

But  I  conquered  the  iron  strength  of  the  Koman  Emj^ire, 
and  divided  her  vast  territory  into  many  kingdoms.  Her 
orators,  poets,  and  heroes  I  have  consigned  to  the  grave.  I 
have  laid  waste  the  imperial  city  of  the  Csesars.  The  loud 
shout  of  the  gladiator,  and  the  wild  applause  of  the  specta- 
tors, no  more  echo  through  the  lofty  arches  of  the  mighty 
Coliseum ;  and  the  eloquence  of  Cicero  no  more  resounds 
through  the  senate-halls  of  Rome. 

Thus  for  ages  I  have  witnessed  the  rise  and  decline  of 
empires,  which  have  bowed  down  before  the  rising  glories 
•,  of  young  nations,  to  whose  prosperity  there  will  also  come  a 
day  of  decline.  Old,  call  you  ?  aye,  but  when  shall  my 
days  be  remembered  ?  Not  till  He  who  first  bid  me  begin 
my  flight  so  orders  it. 

When  His  purposes  who  called  me  into  being  are  accom- 
plished, then  I,  too,  shall  go  to  the  place  of  all  living. 


We  are  often  dissatisfied  with  those  who  negotiate  our 
affairs,  because  they  often  sacrifice  their  friend  to  the  suc- 
cess of  the  negotiation :  success  becomes  their  own  interest, 
through  the  honor  they  expect  for  bringing  to  a  conclusion 
wdiat  themselves  had  undertaken. 

ISTothing  is  so  contagious  as  example:  never  was  there 
any  considerable  good  or  ill  done  that  does  not  produce  its 
like.  We  imitate  good  actions  through  emulation,  and  bad 
ones  through  a  malignity  in  our  nature,  which  shame  con- 
ceals and  example  sets  at  liberty. 


THE    HOUK     OF    PEAYEE — C  H  A  E  I  T  T.  173 

THE    HOUR    OF    PEAYER. 

BY    JMISS    MARY    A.    MALIN". 

How  beautiful !  how  beautiful ! 

The  hour  of  fervent  prayer, 
When  holy  hearts  ascend  to  heaven. 

To  Him  who  reigneth  there. 
Oh,  then  with  joy  the  knee  we  bend 
To  Him  who  is  our  Father — friend. 

Oh,  how  solemn  !  oh,  how  solemn  ! 

The  hour  of  humble  prayer. 
When  mourners  lift  their  hearts  to  Him 

Who  softens  every  care. 
'Tis  then  the  holy  angels  bring 
Their  tribute  to  their  God  and  King. 

How  holy  !  how  divinely  sweet! 

The  hour  of  sacred  prayer, 
When  round  the  fam'ly  altar  meet 

A  band  with  hearts  sincere. 
'Tis  then,  'tis  then  our  hearts  we  bend 
'  To  Him  who  doth  salvation  send ! 


CHARITY. 

yE  who  live  in  ease  and  gladness. 
Free  from  want  and  penury  sure, 

Listen  to  the  voice  of  sadness. 
Heed  the  sufferings  of  the  poor. 

Take  a  part  of  thy  profusion, 

Visit  where  the  mourners  d well- 
Give,  and  by  the  blest  diffusion 
Feel  the  joys  of  doing  well. 

Seek  the  cabin,  cold  and  cheerless, 
Misery,  want,  and  wo  are  there ; 

t5id  those  weeping  eyes  be  tearless, 
Make  those  helpless  babes  thy  care. 

Go  to  bless  the  sick  and  friendless, 
Cheer  their  journey  to  the  grave; 

So  shall  thy  reward  be  endless — 
Jesus  came  to  seek  and  save. 


174  BE     FAITHFUL. 


B  E     FAITHFUL. 


BY    ALBERT    TODD.  | 


Yes,  young  man,  wlioever  tlioii  art,  he  faithful  /  for  even 
in  this  life  thou  wilt  find  it  to  be  of  great  advantage  to  thee. 
If  thou  art  in  the  employ  of  thy  fellow-man,  and  dost  faith 
fully  perform  whatever  is  required  of  thee,  thou  wilt  not 
only  gain  his  respect  and  esteem,  but  wilt  secure  for  thyself 
the  approbation  of  all  within  the  circle  of  thy  acquaintance. 
Thou  wilt  find  in  thy  journeyings  through  this  life,  that 
faithfulness  in  temporal  matters  will  be  of  invaluable  service 
to  thee.  It  will  be  a  recommend  that  will  procure  for  thee 
most  any  situation  thou  mayst  desire. 

But,  young  man,  faithfulness  to  thy  brother  man  is  not  all 
that  is  required.  Thou  must  bear  in  mind  that  there  is  an- 
other Being  to  whom  also  thou  must  le faithful.  "  Be  thou 
faithful  unto  death,  and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  life." 
What  an  inducement  to  press  on,  and  secure  for  thyself  this 
"  crown  of  life,"  that  will  gain  for  thee  a  mansion  in  thy 
Father's  house.  If  thou  hast  turned  thy  face  toward  the 
]^ew  Jerusalem,  press  on ;  let  nothing  deter  thee  from  the 
path  of  duty.  Be  faithful  while  it  is  to-day^  for  we  have  no 
lease  of  to-morrow.  Thou  mayst  see  temptations  on  tLy 
right  hand  and  on  thy  left,  but  turn  not  aside,  for  thy  safety 
depends  on  keeping  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path. 

Be  faithful!  I  well  remember  the  impression  made 
upon  my  mind  by  words  which  fell  from  my  father's  lips,  as 
I  took  my  leave  of  him  for  a  distant  land.  Said  my  father, 
"  It  is  pleasant  to  live  near  each  other,  but  it  matters  little 
where  we  are,  if  we  are  but  found  faithful .'"'  How  true. 
Such  I  have  found  to  be  the  case  during  ony  pilgrimage,  and 
such,  young  man,  wilt  thou  find  to  be  the  case  during  thy 
journey  through  life.  In  whatever  country  or  kingdom  thou 
hast  taken  up  thy  abode,  thou  wilt  find  it  to  be  to  thy  ever- 
lasting comfort  to  he  faithful  to  thy  Father  in  heaven. 


SUMMER     SKETCH.  I75 


SUMMEE    SKETCH. 

BY      HOEACE      DRESSER,     L1..IJ. 

The  sultry  air  scarce  moves  llie  summer  leaves; 
The  clouds  piled  up  on  high,  in  rugged  range 
And  blackened  front,  wall  up  the  western  sky, 
The  fields  athirst,  and  parched  with  intense  heat 
That  long  since  drank  the  rivulet  all  dry, 
Look  dead,  and  make  the  husbandman  feel  sad ; 
The  Indian  corn  rolls  up  its  spires  to  die, 
And  drooping  hangs  its  tapering  tassels  low ; 
The  herds  have  huddled  close  beneath  the  shade 
Of  tower  or  tree,  or  fence  or  craggy  cliff; 
And  man,  with  thirst  that  spurns  to  be  allayed, 
Finds  not  a  nook  for  wonted  rest  and  ease. 
The  night  comes  on,  and  darkness  thickens  round — 
A  time  when  torrid  sunbeams  cease  to  dart, 
And  make  the  fainting  plants  and  flowers  to  curl» 
And  wither  on  the  arid  tracts  of  earth. 
The  heated  atmosphere  begins  to  move — 
The  clouds,  upheaved,  in  dark  disorder  roll 
Athwart  the  heaven— presage  of  coming  shower  ; 
But  see— the  zigzag  lightning's  lurid  flash 
Gleams  forth  and  shines  along  the  dark  expanse, 
Still  streaked  and  tinged  with  sunset's  golden  light. 
The  w-ild  winds  bustle  round,  and  rage  and  roar, 
While  on  their  wings  the  storm-cloud  comes  apace# 
And  curtains  all  things  o'er  with  veil  of  night. 
Now  hark !  a  sound  is  heard  among  the  ck>uds 
Surcharged  with  fire,  the  awful  thunder's  voice. 
Reverberating  through  their  changeful  forms— 
The  rain  hath  come!  I  hear  the  rattling  drops 
As  on  my  roof  they  fall,  and  down  the  eaves 
Descend  in  torrent  flow — a  gladsome  sound  ! 
Mark  how  the  flash  lights  up  the  darkened  air, 
And  brings  to  view  the  fields,  the  scattered  ti'ees, 
And  ail  that  in  the  open  day  appears. 
How  sudden  Night's  obscuring  veil  again  * 

Enwraps  and  hides  the  landscape  from  my  sight, 
In  thicker  darkness,  till  another  gleam 
Bursts  forth,  illuming  but  a  moment's  time. 
The  rain  is  o'er ;  the  pluvial  visitaof 
Hath  sped  away  on  errand  merciful, 


176  FRIENDLY     SUGGESTIONS. 

To  water  and  refresh  the  lands  abroad. 

A  bland  and  cooling  breeze  hath  risen  up, 

That  gently  fans  and  soothes  niy  fevered  brow — 

The  sky  all  studded  thick  with  stars  appears — 

The  pathway  of  the  Storm-Cloud's  dreadful  power. 

And  seat  of  gods,  as  olden  fable  tells. 


FRIENDLY    SUGGESTIONS. 

BY     DR.     J.      H.      HANAFORD. 
EXERCISE. 

Our  benevolent  Creator  lias  placed  iis  in  a  beautiful  world, 
surrounded  by  whatever  would  legitimately  conduce  to  our 
bighest  good.  Our  relations  to  the  external  world  are  such 
as  Infinite  Wisdom  saw  fit  to  bestow.  A  love  for  the  beau- 
tiful, the  grand,  and  sublime  exists,  and  the  material  world 
furnishes  an  abundance  to  gratify  every  asj)iration  of  this 
character.  All  nature  teems  with  life,  vivacity,  and  joyous- 
ness.  Every  tree,  and  shrub,  and  flower,  every  atom  in  the 
wide  universe  has  its  design,  either  for  practical  utility  or 
adornment. 

In  the  economy  of  nature,  woman  -occupies  a  prominent 
position.  Her  influence  is  felt  to  a  far  greater  extent  than 
is  ordinarily  supposed.  She  should  not  only  know  her  duty, 
the  relation  which  she  sustains  to  the  world,  the  nature  of 
those  relations,  but  have  energy  and  j^ower,  as  well  as  the 
disposition  to  fulfill  the  designs  of  her  creation^  She  need 
not  possess  tho  firmness  of  muscle,  the  power  of  endurance, 
and  the  physical  develoj^ment  which  are  requisite  for  the 
drudgery  and  more  laborious  offices  of  busy  life,  yet  she  ma/y 
and  ought  to  possess  sufficient  stamina  to  enable  her  to  be 
useful,  and  enjoy  a  far  greater  amount  of  health  and  happi- 
ness than  usually  falls  to  her  lot  in  society,  as  now  consti- 
tuted. Like  every  other  sentient  being,  she  is  made  for 
action^  made  capable  of  it,  and  so  constituted  that  her  happi- 
ness is  dependent  upon  it.  She  may  transmit  to  posterity, 
through  her  ofi*spring,  unnumbered  ills,  or  health  and  vigor 
may  be  their  inheritance ;  she  may  bless  or  curse  the  world. 


F  K I E  X  D  L  Y      S  U  G  G  E  S  T I O  X  S  .  1/7 

The  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  her  being — ever  within  her 
reach — may  be  made  available  for  good,  or  a  puny,  deformed, 
diseased,  and  miserable  offspring  may  remind  her  of  her 
remissness  in  duty,  or  curse  her  for  their  being. 

The  conditions  of  health  are  various,  as  various  as  our 
organization  is  complicated,  and  wisely  adapted  to  the  multi- 
form offices  of  human  life.  Among  these  laws,  all  of  which 
are  important,  proper  exercise  of  all  the  powers  of  the  hu- 
man system  stands  preeminent.  It  is  not  enough  to  exercise 
the  miiid — its  physical  organ,  its  "  clayey  tenement,"  pre- 
fers its  claims.  Xor  is  it  sufficient  to  bring  these  powers 
into  action  at  long  intervals ;  continued  activity,  with  due 
regard  to  rest,  is  the  law  of  development. 

The  employments  of  females  in  this  country  are  far  too 
sedentary.     It  is  not  those  only  who  toil  in  dark  and  dreary 
garrets,  that  but  seldom  enjoy  the  blessed  light  and  pure  air 
of  heaven ;  it  is  not  such  only  who  pine  in  languor  and  pain 
from  a  want  of  a  proper  enjoyment  of  blessings  which  a 
bou;itiful  Father  has  bestowed  upon  us.     Thousands,  whose 
circumstances   do  not  demand  it,  are  immured  in  parlors 
or    drawing-rooms,   almost   herineticaUy   sealed,    while   the 
thought  of  the  gentle  breezes  of  heaven  might  almost  produce 
hysteria.     Fortunately  this  class  is  far  from  constituting  the 
majority.     It  can  not  be  denied,  however,  that  by  far  the 
greater  portion  have  too  little  regard  to  the  development  of 
body,  especially  when  the  intimate  connection  and  mutual 
dependence  of  the  mind  and  body  are  taken  into  account. 
There  is  a  constant  spnpathy,  one  with  the  other,  so  great 
that  one  can  not  suffe-r  alone.     The  results  of  this  intimate 
relationship,  and  a  disregard  or  ignorance  of  organic  laws, 
are  seen  in  the  usual  walks  of  life,  in  characters  which  can 
not  be  mistaken.     Pain  and  sickness  are  all  around  us.    We 
literally  groan  under  a  weight  of  sorrows,  most  of  which  are 
induced  or  aggravated  by  our  own  acts.     Joint-torturing 
pains,  burning  fevers,  and  throbbing  inflammations  often  re- 
mind us  of  our  deviations  from  the  path  of  rectitude.     Such 
is  not  the  design  of  an  ever-watchful  Providence.     He  cre- 
ated us  capable  of  a  happier  destiny,  a  more  harmonious 
existence. 


178  FKIENDLY     SUGGESTIONS. 

Let  such,  therefore,  wlio  would  avoid  many  of  the  "  ills 
which  liesh  is  heir  to,"  emancipate  themselves  from  the  bond- 
age of  constraint,  and  develop  every  power  of  the  body  and 
}nind.  Let  them  stroll  among  the  beauties  of  nature,  over 
hills  and  momitains,  if  they  wish,  through  groves  and  wood- 
lands, where  the  music  of  nature  is  heard  in  its  native  purity, 
across  the  verdant  vales  and  meadows,  and  pluck  the  flowers 
that  sweetly  sparkle  there.  Let  them — following  the  ex- 
ample of  the  English  aristocracy  or  nobility,  who  do  not 
hesitate  to  mingle  in  the  chase,  or  walk  several  miles  each 
day — spend  some  hours  each  day  in  the  open  air,  taking 
deep  draughts  of  joy-giving  air,  inflating  the  lungs  to  their 
utmost  capacity.  Let  them  resort  to  mgrn'ous  exercise, 
should  circumstances  demand  such,  and  be  able  to  boast  of 
well-developed  muscles,  free  and  easy  carriage,  and  a  glow 
of  liealth  upon  the  cheek.  Let  them  seek  the  light  and 
warmth  of  the  sun;  and  should  a  slight  tinge  from  Sol's 
laboratory  deck  the  brow,  it  would  be  preferable — when 
judged  by  a  correct  standard  of  beauty — to  the  sallow  or 
wan  complexion  which  disease  produces.  In  fine,  let  them 
remember  that  air  and  light  are  important  hygienic  agents, 
which  can  not  be  enjoyed  in  \\iQVi: purity  within  their  dwell- 
ings, and  that  a  necessary  regard  to  these  laws  of  health  will 
do  much  to  diminish  the  sum  of  human  suftering. 


XuMBER  One. — One  hour  lost  in  the  morning,  by  lying  in 
bed,  will  put  back  all  the  business  of  the  day. 

One  hour  gained  by  rising  early,  is  worth  one  month  in  a 
year. 

One  hole  in  the  fence  will  cost  ten  times  as  much  as  it  will 
to  fix  it  at  once. 

One  unruly  animal  will  teach  all  others  in  company  bad 
tricks ;  and  the  Bible  says,  "  One  sinner  destroyeth  much 
good." 

One  drunkard  will  keep  a  family  poor,  and  make  them 

miserable. 


NINEVEH, 

BY    C,     WING  AT  E, 


Of  the  early  history  of  the  ancient  city  of  ISTineveh  we 
have  very  little  authentic  information.  The  Bible  speaks  of 
it  as  the  great  city  of  "  three  days'  journey,"  that  was  ''  laid 
waste,  and  there  w^as  none  to  bemoan  her ;"  but  no  allusion  is 
made  to  the  history  of  the  Assyrian  empire  until  the  period 
when  their  warlike  expeditions  to  the  west  of  the  Euphrates 
brought  them  in  contact  with  the  Jews.  Pul,  the  first  king 
whose  name  is  recorded,  reigned  between  eight  and  nine  hun- 
dred years  before  the  Christian  era ;  but  as  he  lived  near  the 
close  of  the  empire,  there  must  have  been  a  long  succession 
of  kings  who  ruled  over  a  great  part  of  Asia,  of  whom  no 
memorials  have  come  down  to  us.  Among  the  ancients,  the 
only  authors  who  wrote  on  the  history  of  Assyria  are  Hero- 
dotus and  Ctesias.  Unfortunately  the  work  of  the  former, 
who  was  so  scrupulous  in  recording  facts  and  traditions,  lias 
been  entirely  lost ;  indeed,  the  only  proof  that  it  ever  was 
wi'itten  rests  upon  the  authority  of  Aristotle,  who  mentions 
having  seen  it.  Of  the  history  of  Ctesias  only  a  few  frag- 
ments remain,  preserved  chiefly  in  the  works  of  Diodorus, 
Siculus,  and  Photius.  He  spent  seventeen  years  in  the 
capital  of  Persia  as  physician  to  the  king,  and  was  treated 
with  great  honor.  During  his  residence  in  Persia  he  com- 
piled from  the  public  archives  a  history  of  Persia.  He  also 
wrote  an  account  of  India,  but  the  ridiculous  exaggerations 
and  absurd  fables  with  which  it  w^as  filled  have  cast  mistrust 
upon  all  his  other  works.  Aristotle  has  repeatedly  declared 
him  unworthy  of  crfedit,  and  most  modern  critics  have  re- 
ceived his  statements  with  great  reserve.     Yet  of  his  history, 


180  NINEVEH. 

unrelip.ble  as  it  is,  very  little  remains,  except  the  names  of 
kings.  Of  more  modern  writers  we  have  several,  who  have 
done  little  more  than  casually  allude  to  events  in  Assyrian 
history,  or  commemorate  tlie  exploits  of  their  three  mon- 
archs,  ^N^enus,  Semiramis,  and  Sardanapalus,  whose  deeds 
Lave  been  so  mixed  up  with  fable  as  to  render  all  accounts 
of  them  exceedingly  uncertain. 

These  three  are  the  only  sovereigns  of  whose  exploits  we 
have  any  account,  although  more  than  thirty  generations 
elapsed  between  I^inus  and  Sardanaj)alus.  Each  writer  has 
given  his  own  accounts  of  events  with  very  little  reference 
to  others,  or  agreement  with  them.  In  the  date  assigned  to 
the  commencement  of  the  Assyrian  empire  they  differ  more 
than  a  thousand  years;  and  in  describing  the  events  of 
more  modern  history  there  is  nearly  tlie  same  discrepancy. 
Of  the  real  history  of  this  great  and  mighty  people  we  knew 
comparatively  nothing,  until  the  researches  of  modern  skill 
and  enterprise  had  brought  to  light  the  long-buried  monu- 
ments which  reveal  the  civilization,  power,  and  magnificence 
of  the  Assyrian  empire. 

JSTineveh  was  destroyed  in  the  year  606  before  Christ. 
When  the  Greeks  under  Xenophon  marched  through  Persia 
during  his  celebrated  retreat  (400  B.  C),  tliey  found  the 
remains  of  an  ancient  city ;  but  the  name  of  I^ineveh  was 
even  then  lost,  not  two  centuries  from  the  date  of  its  de- 
struction. Its  mighty  ramparts,  that  had  so  long  defied  the 
assaults  of  its  foes,  had  crumbled  beneath  the  withering 
touch  of  time ;  its  palaces,  the  seat  of  barbaric  pomp  and 
luxury,  were  buried  beneath  the  vast  mounds  that  w^ere  the 
only  evidences  of  their  existence,  and  the  very  name  of  Isin- 
eveh,  at  the  sound  of  which  nations  had  trembled,  was 
utterly  forgotten — blotted  out  from  the  memory  of  those  who 
were  living  on  the  spot  it  once  had  occupied. 

That  a  great  and  flourishing  city,  so  renowned  for  its 
extent,  wealth,  and  power,  should  have  so  utterly  perished, 
that  for  ages  its  site  should  have  remained  a  matter  of 
doubt,  is  one  of  the  most  astonishing  facts  of  history ;  and 
that  it  should  have  been  disentombed  from  its  sepulcher  of 
ages,  its  records  deciphered,  though  written  in  a  language 


NINEVEH.  181 

long  since  lost,  and  its  liistorj  again  written,  is  indeed  tlie 
<»  crowning  historical  discovery  of  tlie  nineteenth  centmy." 

Tlie  huge  mounds  of  earth  and  rubbish  which  had  for 
ages  arrested  the  attention  of  the  few  travelers  who  had  the 
courage  and  zeal  to  penetrate  the  plains  of  ancient  Assyria 
were  so  supposed  to  mark  the  remains  of  some  unknown 
period.  Several  persons  had  mentioned  the  great  mounds 
of  earth  opposite  Mosul ;  and  the  celebrated  antiquarian, 
Macdonald  Kinneir,  supposed  them  to  be  the  remains  of  a 
Koman  camp,  of  the  time  of  Hadrian.  But  the  first  to 
engage  in  a  systematic  examination  of  the  ancient  Assyrian 
empire  was  Mr.  Eich,  an  English  gentleman,  residing  at 
Baghdad,  in  the  employment  of  the  East  India  Company, 
about  the  year  1820.  The  details  of  his  labors  were  pub- 
lished in  a  literary  journal  at  Yienna,  called  ''Mines  do 
P  Orient,''  and  afte^i'ward  republished  by  his  widow,  in  a 
work  containing  the  narrative  of  his  journey  to  Babylon. 
His  discoveries  consisted  principally  of  a  few  inscriptions, 
engraved  stones,  and  a  wooden  coffin ;  but  the  careful  ac- 
count which  he  drew  up  of  the  site  of  the  ruins  was  of  greater 
value,  and  has  formed  the  ground-work  of  all  subsequent 
mquiries  into  the  topography  of  Babylon.  Tlie  fragments 
cellected  by  Mr.  Pvich  were  subsequently  placed  in  the 
British  Museum,  and  formed  almost  the  only  collection  of 
Assyrian  antiquities  in  Europe ;  yet  even  these  memorials 
of  a  past  age,  meager  as  they  were,  excited  a  high  degree 

of  interest. 

ISTothing  more  was  done  toward  prosecuting  these  inves- 
tigations until  the  summer  of  1840,  when  Mr.  Layard,  an 
English  gentleman  who  had  been  traveling  through  Syria, 
was  induced  to  visit  the  great  mound  of  Niniroud,  near  the 
banks  r,f  the  Tigris,  some  sixteen  miles  below  Mosul. 
Throuo-h  his  influence  M.  Botta,  the  French  consul  at 
Mosul,  was  induced  to  engage  in  making  excavations  mto 
these  mounds,  both  in  the  vicinity  of  Mosul  and  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Hehorsabad,  twelve  miles  northeast  of  Mosul.  These 
labors  were  successful,  and  to  Mr.  Botta  is  due  the  honor 
of  having  found  the  first  Assyrian  momtment.  His  labors 
were  continued  for  nearly  two  years,  and  the  results  have 


182  NINEVEH. 

been  given  to  tlie  j^ublic  in  a  series  of  splendid  engravings, 
published  at  tlie  expense  of  the  French  government. 

In  the  years  1845-6  Mr.  Layard  engaged  once  more  in 
the  exploration  of  these  ruins,  with  a  zeal,  skill,  and  energy 
that  have  thrown  into  the  shade  all  the  labors  of  his  prede- 
cessors, and  the  records  of  which  have  rendered  us  better 
acquainted  with  the  history,  manners,  and  customs  of  the 
ancient  Assyrians  than  all  other  books  put  together. 

From  the  discoveries  made  by  Mr.  Layard,  it  would  appear 
that  ISTineveh  occupied  an  area  of  about  sixty  miles  ;  agree- 
ing perfectly  with  the  old  Greek  writers,  and  also  with  the 
Scriptural  account,  wdiich  represents  it  as  a  great  city  of 
three  days'  journey — a  day's  journey  being  about  twenty 
miles.  The  walls  of  the  city,  as  well  as  of  the  buildings, 
were  composed  of  sun-dried  bricks,  faced  with  thin  slabs  of 
hmestone.  Many  of  the  edifices  seem  to  have  been  de- 
stroyed by  fire,  and  the  limestones,  from  the  effect  of  the 
heat,  have  been  reduced  to  lime,  and  fall  to  pieces  on  being 
exposed  to  the  air.  Others  again  have  been  buried  beneath 
the  clay  walls,  which  have  gradually  decomposed  and 
formed  large  mounds  covered  with  grass,  and  have  pre- 
served their  contents  in  as  perfect  condition  as  when  first 
erected.  Within  these  exhumed  temples  we  have,  in  the 
paintings  and  sculptures  on  the  walls,  a  complete  history  of 
the  time  when  Mneveh  sent  forth  her  armies,  her  chariots 
and  horsemen,  and  reigned  without  a  rival.  Strange  sculp- 
tered  monuments  guard  the  gates : 

"  Huge  lion  forms,  frowning  a  tawny  red, 
With  regal  height  majestic — human  head 
And  eagle  wings,  thrown  back,  of  every  hue. 
Vermilioned,  feathered,  gold  and  jet,  and  blue. 
Tinging  the  pavement." 

Here  lie  the  implements  of  domestic  life ;  there  the  deadly 
weapons  of  the  w^arrior,  as  when  he  last  returned  red  from 
the  field  of  slaughter ;  while  the  remains  of  arms,  furniture, 
and  various  articles  of  luxmy  show  that  many  of  Vsdiat  are 
considered  modern  inventions  date  back  thousands  of  years. 
Beautifully-carved  pieces  of  ivory,  for  handles  to  daggers, 


1^'INEYEH.  183 

find  other  purposes,  show  that  they  were  skilled  in  sculpture ; 
while  the  figures  of  lions,  and  other  animals  cast  in  solid 
metal,  and  of  great  beauty,  indicate  a  high  degree  of  skill 
in  working  iron,  copper,  and  various  other  metals.  That 
they  were  acquainted  with  the  art  of  gilding  is  proved  by 
the  remains  of  gold  leaf  on  the  ivory  and  bricks  of  the 
palaces.  They  were  also  familiar  with  the  art  of  making 
glass,  and  of  inlaying  it  into  various  other  substances. 
Ivory  tablets  have  been  found  inlaid  with  blue  opaque 
glass ;  and  several  glass  vases  of  beautiful  form  were  taken 
from  the  ruins.  Numerous  gems,  apparently  used  for  seals, 
are  most  delicately  and  minutely  ornamented  with  various 
sacred  devices  and  with  the  form  of  animals.  Hence  it  fol- 
lows that  the  inhabitants  must  have  been  familiar  with  the 
art  of  refining  and  tempering  steel,  for  without  its  aid  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  have  cut  the  glass  and  pre- 
cious stones  which  have  been  used  for  sculpture. 

Time  would  fail  to  give  even  a  brief  account  of  all  that 
has  been  exhumed  from  the  buried  monuments  and  temples 
of  this  ancient  city,  and  in  vain  do  we  speculate  on  the 
causes  that  have  led  to  its  destruction. 

While  gazing  at  the  statues  that  adorn  her  temples,  and 
meditating  on  the  events  which  have  transpired  around 
them,  well  may  we  inquire — 

"  What  charm  hath  lulled  that  city,  what  long  spell 
Of  sleeping  centuries  o'er  its  glories  fell  ? 

Oh,  that  those  stern  and  hueless  lips  could  tell 

What  nations  once  have  owned — the  shuddering  spell — 

What  God-loved  seers — what  world-wide  conquerors  here 

Have  gazed  in  horror,  or  bowed  down  in  fear — 

Where  now  those  nations  ?     Though  the  sunbeam  shines 

Once  more  through  palace  court  or  temple  shrines, 

Where  once  in  sacred  calm  or  restless  strife, 

Throbbed  the  full  pulses  of  their  mighty  life. 

They  rise  not  now  !  those  senseless  gods  alone 

Survive  to  frown  in  everlasting  stone." 


KoT   all   those  who   discharge    their   debts  of  gratitude 
should  flatter  themselves  that  they  are  grateful. 


Pmrang  Sfiiig. 


n. 


^TJ 


fj 


t: 


-0 h— 


-0- 

V- 


,   Xow,  v.'liilo    tlio      ear  -   ly    dawn 
■  Smiles  o'er     the     dew  -  y     lawn, 

1^ 


zfi; 


:fcT 


3^ 


Ra 

pi 


diant  and    bright  ; 


:«: 


P~^"F 


-t-' 


'P^i 


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■While    all     the   wood-land  throng  Their  tune  -  ful  notes  jDro-long, 


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IB: 


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my      morn  -  ing   song      "With    true      de 


litjht. 


ei: 


:pzi 


1^! 


m: 


fir- 


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=1==1- 
-ii^=: 


1 


2.  Oh  for  a  heart  to  love, 
Pure  as  the  saints  above 

In  their  bright  spheres ; 
Where  they  in  bliss  remain, 
With  the  seraphic  train, 
And  in  full  glory  reign 
Through  endless  years. 


3.  Spirit  of  holiness, 
Visit  our  lowliness, — 

On  earth  descend : 
So  shall  the  Gospel  sun, 
Whose  race  hath  just  begun, 
]ts  glorious  circuit  run 

Till  time  shall  end. 


AH.GicaMoxi.  pmr- 


K.Ihinnpl.sculpt- . 


w/f* '  -^/'p^/^?^^  ^''d^. 


THE    YOUNG     BRIDE. 
With  a  Steel  Engraving. 

*^  I  WONDER  why  Emeliiie  is  so  sad  to-niglit  ?  One  would 
suppose  that  on  tlie  evening  immediately  preceding  lier 
bridal  she  would  be  happy,  if  ever."  Thus  soliloquized 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  as  Emeline  Borton  passed  through  the 
])arlor,  where  she  sat  readins:.  As  the  reader  has  already 
inferred,  the  day  succeeding  the  one  on  which  our  narrative 
opens  was  to  witness  the  union  of  Emeline  with  one  to 
whom  her  heart's  best  aftections  had  long  been  given ;  tliat 
one  was  Cyrus  Bordale. 

At  an  early  age  Emeline  was  left  an  orphan.     On  the 
settlement  of  her  father's  estate  it  was  found  that  there  was 
scarcely  enough  remaining  to  bestow  upon  his  only  child 
the  rudiments  of  an  English  education.     A  maternal  uncle 
had  kindly  offered  her  a  home,  and  as  she  was  ever  treated 
with  uniform  kindness  and  the  most  aflectionate  regard,  she 
felt  less  keenly  her  loss  than  she  would  have  done  had  it 
been  otherwise.     But  though  uncle,  aunt,  and  cousins  were 
as  kind  as  heart  could  wish,  and  thouo^li  after  a  few  vears' 
attendance  at  the  district  school  she  was  rco-arded  as  havino- 
more  than  ordinary  accomplishments,  yet  she  possessed  a 
mind  that  grasped  after  still  more  lofty  attainments.     She 
early  learned  that  true  greatness  consisted  more  in  moral 
and  mental  worth  than  in   the  possession  of  wealth,  and 
though  she  was  unfortunately  denied  the  means  of  defraying 
the  expenses  of  an  academical  education,  yet  she  determined 
that  this  should  not   form  an  insuperable   barrier  .to  her 
ascending  the  rugged  liill  of  science.     'Not  a  moment  of  her 
leisure  time  was  allowed  to  pass  unemployed;  but  while 
others    were   seeking   enjoyment   from    other   sources,   she 
found  hers,  in  poring  over  some  volume  from  Avhich  useful 
knowleclo-e  could  be  derived.     At  the  hq-q  of  sixteen  she  saw 
an  oiler  of  one  hundred  dollars,  by  the  publisher  of  a  popu- 
lar maa'azine,  for  the  best  essay  on  female  education,  and 

11 


190  THE     YOUXG     BRIDE. 

not  ^Yitllollt  many  misgivings,  it  is  true,  but  \vitli  a  detcnn- 
ination  to  do  lici*  best,  succeed  or  fail,  she  set  about  tho 
task,  and  thougli  there  were  many  competitors,  she  suc- 
ceeded, not  only  to  win  the  prize,  but  to  command  tlie 
admiration  and  spontaneous  encomiums  of  all  who  read  her 
production.  Her  name  was  not  given  to  the  public,  and 
this  fact  we  have  mentioned,  lest  any  should  come  to  the 
absurd  conclusion  that  becoming  modesty,  and  firm  fortitude 
and  self-reliance,  are  uncongenial.  Xow  were  the  means 
placed  in  her  hands  to  gratify  her  long-cherished  desire — 
to  avail  herself  of  the  benefits  of  the  female  seminary,  which 
was  of  no  mean  celebrity,  in  a  neighboring  village.  Tln-ee 
years  she  passed  in  this  classic  hall,  supplying  her  wants 
by  the  profits  arising  from  the  productions  of  her  pen,  which 
she  employed  during  the  hours  that  many  of  her  school- 
mates devoted  to  trivial  amusements.  But  her  good  sense 
prompted  her  to  take  the  exercise  requisite  for  her  health. 
Examination-day  came,  and  among  many  who  had  toiled 
hard,  and  who  were  deserving  of  much  credit,  Emeline 
bore  the  palm.  There  were  not  a  few  among  the  delighted 
spectators  who  were  deeply  interested ;  but  there  vras  one, 
who,  when  Emeline  came  on  the  stage,  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  with  the  deepest  interest,  which  he  could  not  avoid  be- 
traying. And  who  was  he  ?  The  reader  shall  know.  In  a 
city  far  away  from  the  location  of  this  seminary  he  lived. 
He  was  a  young  man  of  no  mean  endowments,  and  literary 
accomplishments,  and  wealth — all  that  heart  could  wish — was 
his.  For  several  months,  with  the  deepest  interest,  had  he 
perused  the  articles  in  one  of  the  most  popular  periodicals  in 
the  country,  published  in  that  city,  written  by  our  heroine 
over  an  assumed  signature,  but  bearing  evidence  not  only  of 
having  "been  written  by  a  female,  but  one  of  no  ordinary  cast 
of  mind.  With  each  succeeding  article  his  interest  increased, 
and  he  came  to  the  determination  to  form  a  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  the  authoress,  whoever  she  might  be.  But 
how  to  ascertain  her  real  name  and  residence  were  questions 
more  easily  propounded  than  decided.  Tlie  only  plan  that 
to  him  appeared  feasible  was  to  inquire  at  the  publication 
ofi^ice   of  the   periodicah     It   was   with    difiiculty    th-t   ha 


THE     YOUNG     BKIDE.  ,19  J_ 

)nvi*accd  tlie  publislier  to  disclose  the  secret  confided  to  him 
by  his  correspondent ;  but  he  finally  succeeded,  and  imme- 
diately set  off  to  the  seminary,  and  arrived  there  on  the  day 
of  the  examination.  Our  readers  have  doubtless,  ere  this, 
guessed  that  the  personage  last  introduced  was  Cyrus  Bor- 
dale  ;  if  so,  they  need  not  guess  again. 

Of  her  circumstances,  so  far  as  poverty  or  wealth  were  con- 
cerned, he  knew  nothing ;  and  he  had  seen  too  much  of  the 
blind  adoration  paid  to  wealth,  and  the  unhappy  conse- 
quences of  giving  it  preference  to  real  worth,  to  wish  to  be 
made  a  victim  to  selfishness.  And  he  determined  that 
whoever  shared  his  wealth,  should  do  so,  not  for  tliat^  but 
for  lum. 

Accordingly  he  passed  in  that  village  for  an  itinerant 
artist,  and  was  attired  in  indifferent  apparel.  In  his  as- 
sumed character  he  obtained  an  introduction  to,  and  ac- 
quaintance with  Emeline.  If,  from  perusing  the  productions 
of  her  pen,  he  had  been  induced  to  respect  the  talents  of  the 
author,  a  personal  acquaintance  produced  in  him  emotions 
of  a  deeper,  purer,  holier  nature.  As  he  sat  by  her  side, 
and  listened  to  the  sublime  sentiments  that  fell  from  her 
lips  ;  as  w^ith  her  he  walked  beneath  the  moonlight's  pale 
beams ;  as  her  fingers  swept  skillfully  over  the  keys  of  the 
piano,  and  her  well-cultivated  voice  accompanied  their 
music ;  and  above  all,  as  he  had  evidence  that  she  had 
given  her  affections  to  her  Redeemer,  he  felt  that  she 
was,  indeed,  one  with  whom  it  would  be  no  ordinary  bless- 
ing to  journey  through  the  rugged  lane  of  life.  The  fact 
(which  he  learned  from  her)  that  she  had,  by  dint  of  her  own 
perseverance  and  toil,  encountered  difliculties  of  no  small 
moment  to  achieve  what  she  had,  in  his  view  shed  a  rich 
luster  over  her  cLaracter.  He  wooed  and  won  her.  Montlis 
glided  by  to  the  boundless  ocean  of  eternity,  and  the  time 
when  Emeline  was  to  leave  the  friends  of  her  youth  was  at 
hand,  ^one  but  those  who  have  been  under  the  necessity 
of  tearing  themselves  away  from  the  home  and  friends  of 
their  childhood,  can  aj^preciate  lier  feelings.  Emotions 
strange — painful  and  yet  joyful — pervaded  her  bosom,  and 
tears  came  unbidden  to  her  eyes,  as  she  reflected  that  this 


192  THE     YOUNG     BKIDE. 

was  tlie  last  night  slie  would  remain  under  tlie  roof  of  lier 
endeared  relatives  ;  that  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  go  with 
liim,  on  whose  arm  she  was  hitherto  to  lean,  far,  far  awav. 
l\o  wonder,  then,  that  she  looked  sad ;  no  wonder  that  the 
sadness  of  her  countenance  attracted  tlie  notice  of  her  affec- 
tionate aunt. 

The  morrow,  the  memorahle  morrow,  came.  The  king  of 
day  rose  in  all  his  loveliness  and  grandeur,  and  shed  a  rich 
luster  over  the  varied  hues  of  autumn,  while  the  soft  Sep- 
tember wind  gently  waved  the  forest  trees.  A  few  among 
her  many  friends  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony,  and  to 
give  their  parting  blessing  to  the  young  bride  who  was  now 
about  to  leave  them,  perhaps  forever.  The  sun  was  sinking 
behind  the  western  hills,  and  threw  lengthened  shadows 
across  the  landscape,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bordale  stepped  into 
a  carriage  wdiich  was  to  convey  them  to  the  steamboat,  some 
half  mile  distant.  On  the  third  day  they  arrived  in  the  far- 
famed  Empire  City ;  their  carriage  stopped  before  an  ele- 
gant mansion. 

"This,"  said  Cyrus  to  his  happy  bride,  "is  your  future 
home.  When  you  consented  to  become  mine,  yon  supposed 
you  were  uniting  yourself  to  honest  poverty  ;  and  this  strat- 
agem I  used,  that  I  might  be  sure  of  winning  one  uninflu- 
enced by  considerations  of  a  selfish  nature." 

And  here  we  will  leave  them,  while  we  learn  the  less^/n 
that  obstacles  may  be  overcome  by  fortitude  and  energy  of 
character,  and  that  virtuous  perseverance  will  be  sure  to 
meet  with  a  reward. 


Though  most  of  the  friendships  of  the  world  ill  deserve 
the  name  of  friendship,  yet  a  man  may  make  use  of  them 
occasionally,  as  of  a  traffic  whose  returns  are  uncertain,  and 
in  which  it  is  usual  to  be  cheated. 

Tlie  reason  v/hy  we  are  so  changeable  in  our  friendship  is, 
that  it  is  as  difficult  to  know  the  qualities  of  the  heart,  as  it 
is  easy  to  know  thosiS  of  the  head. 


OLD     YEAR    REALITIES     AND  1^3 


OLD  YEAE  REALITIES  AND  NEW  YEAR  ANTICIPATIONS. 

BY    MRS.    JOSEPH.    H.    HAJVAFORD. 

Thougb  at  times  my  spirtt  fails  me, 

And  Uie  bitter  tear-drops  fall, 
Thougb  my  lot  is  bard  and  lonely, 

Yeri  bope— I  bope  tbrough  aU.— mes.  kobton. 

Hope  on— bope  ever !— by  tbe  sudden  springing 
Of  green  leaver  wbicb  tbe  winter  bid  so  long; 

And  b^y  the  burst  of  free,  triumphant  singing, 
After  cold,  silent  months  tbe  woods  among ; 

And  by  tbe  rending  of  tbe  frozen  cbams, 

■Which  bound  tbe  glorious  river  of  tbe  plams, 
Hope  on — hope  ever, — mes.  hemaks. 

"AKEall  things  ready  for  to-moiTOW?"  asked  tlie  tenant 
of  'a  lordly  mansion  of  her  housekeeper. 

"  Yes  Mrs  Athearn,"  answered  the  person  addressed,  a 
portly,  4ell-dressed  matron,  who  hore  the  honors  and  res- 
ponsibilities of  her  station  with  becoming  dignity  and  pro- 
fessional iidelity ;  "  all  that  you  have  requested  is  prepared. 
Tlie  cake  is  in  the  closet,  ready  for  cutting ;  the  wine  is 
marked,  and  ready  to  be  brought  from  the  cellar;  those 
grapes  have  arrived,  and  the  flowers  fi-om  the  conservatory 
Le  already  arranged,  and  will  keep  fresh  enough  till  to-mor- 
row Is  there  any  thing,  which  you  have  not  mentioned,  that 
you  would  like?  we  have  yet  time  to  attend  your_pleasure._ 

"Nothing  more,  Marston,"  was   the   reply,  m  languid 
tones,  and  the  housekeeper  left  the  room,  and  its  wealthy 

"'SieTiihtly  blazing  anthracite  rendered  the  room  as  warm 
as  the  swfet,  sunny  days  of  spring,  while  the  ample  arrange- 
ments for  ventilation  permitted  no  unhealthmess  of  atmos- 
phe  e  Tlie  solar  lamt  shed  a  soft  light  around  on  the  rich- 
W  ca'wed  and  stuffed  chairs,  sofa,  and  other  furniture  of  the 
room  A  piano,  open,  and  with  music-sheets  scattered  upon 
it  occupted  a  convenient  place.  Books,  with  costly  bmdmg, 
lamhig  in  crimson  and  gilt,  were  strewed  upon  the  center- 
Sbr  flie  mantel  ornaments  and  candelabra  were  superb. 
Ea  e'and  beautiful  specimens  of  painting  r.id  sculpture  filled 


1D4  KEW     YEAR     ANTICIPATIONS. 

their  appropriate  niclies,  and  a  few  exotics  from  the  conser7- 
atory  "bloomed  iu  beauty  beside  them. 

Mary  Athearn,  the  dweller  amid  such  splendor,  was  seated 
on  a  low  ottoman  near  the  fire.  She  was  attired  in  the  inost 
fashionable  style,  and  the  richness  of  her  velvet  dress,  and 
the  Hashing  gems  she  wore,  were  in  perfect  keeping  with  the 
apartment  in  which  she  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  for  her  head 
was  bent  forward,  and  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  a  large  rock- 
ing-chair, which  stood  before  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Athearn's  face  bore  the  traces  of  beauty,  but  she 
was  pale,  and  her  whole  expression  at  this  time  was  of  sad- 
ness, and  a  yearning  for  something  as  yet  unpossessed,  though 
wealth  sufficient' for  many,  many  wants  was  all  about  her. 

"Must  we  have  wine  to-morrow?"  she  murmured.  Her 
beautiful  pet  spaniel,  hearing  her  voice,  arose  from  his  place 
aj)on  the  soft  rug,  and  walking  gently  toward  her,  placed  his 
bead  upon  her  lap. 

"Marco,"  said  Mrs.  Athearn,  "  are  you  my  only  friend  to- 
night ?  Oh,  that  my  husband  loved  me  as  you  do !  Oh,  that 
he  loved  me  half  as  well  as  he  loves  the  wine-cup !  If  he 
knew  how  I  loved  him  still,  though  he  neglects  me  so  much, 
would  he  not  be  here  to-night,  Marco  ?  You  are  only  a  dog, 
Marco,"  and  she  patted  his  head  afiectionately,  "but  you 
love  those  that  love  you.  Alas !  that  another  IS^ew  Year's 
Eve  should  come,  and  find  my  Alfred  still  at  the  club-room. 
I  suffered  last  New  Year's,  but,  oh,  it  is  worse  now !  for  then 
I  had  the  hope  that  when  our  little  one  was  older  he  would 
love  home  better,  and  stay  with  me  more,  and  now  I  find  he 
is  no  different,  and  I  have  no  more  to  hope." 

She  bowed  her  head  still  lower,  and  the  torrent  of  her 
tears  attested  that  however  the  servants  in  that  princely 
abode  might  enjoy  their  'New  Year's  Eve,  its  mistress  was 
indeed  unhappy.  High  station,  and  wealthy  surroundings, 
are  not  antidotes  for  sorrow,  else  w^ould  Mary  Athearn  never 
have  known  suffering,  for  these,  from  her  birth,  had  been 
shared  by  her. 

She  wept  bitterly  for  a  season,  and  then  arising,  as  if  from 
some  sudden  impulse,  she  took  a  small  silver  lamp  in  her 
hand,  and  proceeded  to  the  chamber  where  slept  her  only 


OLD     TEAR     REALITIES     AND  195 

cliild.  Soon  slie  was  bending  over  the  sleeping  infiuit.  Its 
round  limbs  and  rosy  clieeks  seemed  to  speak  of  liealtli,  and 
tlie  fond  mother  felt  no  pang  of  fear  lest  it  might  not  be 
spared  to  her;  she  thought  only  of  her  greatest  sorrow,  and 
softly  whispered, 

"  Oh,  Eva!  sweet  Eva!  would  that  your  father  loved  you 
as  I  do  !"  The  little  girl  smiled  in  her  sleep,  and  her  mother 
hailed  the  omen  with  delight.  "  Perhaps  he  will  yet  be  re- 
stored to  me.  I  will  still  trust  in  God,  and  in  the  mean  time 
strive  to  fulfill  my  own  duty.  Perhaps  it  was  for  my  spirit- 
ual good  that  I  ^wis  thus  tried,  for  I  might  never  have  sought 
Him  in  truth,  if  earth  had  been  a  path  of  roses  always.  In 
the  ball-room,  at  the  concert  and  opera,  and  theater,  I  forgot 
God ;  but  here  at  home,  alone,  the  neglect  of  my  intemperate 
husband  has  been  the  means  of  leadino-  me  to  reflect  on  my 
course,  and  seek  the  true  riches.  I  trust  I  am  no  longer  a 
butterfly  of  fashion,  and,  oh,  Father!  restore  my  husband!" 

She  sank  upon  her  knees  there  by  the  bedside  of  her  cher- 
ished child,  and  besought,  as  she  had  often  done  before,  the 
refoimation  of  her  husband.  For  her  child's  sake,  as  well 
as  her  own,  she  desired  it,  that  they  might  train  her  together 
for  heaven.  She  did  not  need  his  reformation  that  he  might 
be  niore  successful  in  business,  for  wealth  enough  was  theirs 
already,  but  she  asked  it  no  less  earnestly.  True  prayer 
ah\ays  leads  to  the  performance  of  duty,  and  as  she  rose 
witli  more  spirit-calmness,  she  began  to  reflect  upon  the 
scenes  of  the  past  day,  with  the  question,  whether  every  duty 
had  been  accomplished.  Suddenly  a  thought  flashed  across 
hsr  mind — Did  not  God,  the  Great  Father,  send  it? 

She  descended  to  the  parlor,  after  imprinting  a  fond  kiss 
upon  the  cheek  of  her  sleeping  babe,  and  rang  the  bell.  A 
servant  appeared. 

"Bring  my  cloak  and  hat.  I  wish  to  go  out.  And  ask 
Marston  to  prepare  to  attend  me  with  a  basket  of  pirovisions. 
John  may  accompany  us  to  carry  it,  and  a  lantern." 

The  servant  was  surprised  at  such  unusual  orders  from  his 
mistress,  who  seldom  ventured  forth  in  the  evening  without 
her  husband.  He  knew  not  that,  in  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion for  Xew  Year's  Dav.  she  had  omitted  attcndinij  to  the 


19G  NEW      YEAR      AXTICir  ATIONS. 

wants  of  a  poor  faniilj,  of  wliom  slie  liacl  only  on  tliat  day 
heard.  Partly  as  a  kind  of  penance  fur  her  neglect  of  dnty, 
and  partly  from  a  wish  to  pass  away  the  evening  hours  more 
pleasantly  than  when  sitting  in  her  splendid  parlor,  brooding 
over  her  sorrows,  she  resolved  to  go  herself.  While  the 
servant  is  performing  her  bidding,  let  us  go  before  her. 

Tlie  humble  dwelling  which  we  will  now  enter,  bears  no 
resemblance  to  the  stately  edifice  of  the  Athearns.  Poverty 
seems  stamped  upon  this,  as  wealth  seemed  written  legibly 
on  that.  Ascending  the  creaking  stairs,  we  enter  a  low,  and 
not  very  large  room,  where  sits  a  woman  of  nearly  the  same 
age  as  Mrs.  Athearn — not  more  than  thirty — sewing  as  if  her 
life  depended  upon  the  rapid  motion  of  her  needle.  A  few 
articles  of  furniture  about  her  speak  of  "better  days,"  but 
every  thing,  even  to  the  lean  cat  far  in  upon  the  scarcely 
warm  hearth,  now  tell  in  trumpet-tones  of  want,  and  priva- 
tion, and  misery.  The  broken  window,  with  old  clothes 
placed  in  the  aperture  to  keej)  out,  if  possible,  the  fierce 
blast,  is  a  great  contrast  to  the  windows  at  Mrs.  Athearn's 
home,  where  the  rich  folds  of  damask  curtains  j^ermit  no 
rough  breeze  to  enter.  The  worn  chairs  and  table  speak  of 
long  and  hard  usage.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  is  the  bed- 
stead of  the  parents,  and  the  trundle-bed  of  the  two  children, 
who  were  sent  to  bed,  an  hour  ago,  because  they  cried  with 
the  cold.  Every  thing  which  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother 
could  suggest  and  her  slender  means  allow,  was  done  for 
their  comfort,  but  she  had  no  more  wood,  nor  money  to  buy 
any,  and  her  intemperate  husband  none  would  trust.  One 
little  child,  the  youngest,  cried  for  food,  and  the  first-born 
hushed  him,  saying,  "Mother  has  given  us  all  she  had,  and 
she  has  eaten  nothing  herself  since  morning." 

Oh,  ye  who  have  "enough  and  to  spare,"  remember  that 
this  is,  alas  1  no  fancy  sketch — v\'Ould  that  it  were !  Bu^ 
around  your  own  doors,  perchance,  are  those  whose  children 
have  begged  for  bread  to-night,  and  the  mother,  who  loved 
them  as  dearly  as  you  love  yours,  wealthy  parent,  could  give 
them  none.  Oh,  give  of  your  abundance !  Seek  them  out ! 
The  daughters  of  poverty,  but  not  of  shame,  they  are,  and 
your  sisters  still.     Then  make  the  i^ew  Year  glad  to  them, 


OLD     YEAR     REALITIES     AND  197 

and  go,  as  Mrs.  Atlieam  did,  even  in  the  face  of  winter's  cold 
and  piercing  blast,  if  jou  would  share  her  joy. 

But  I  anticipate.  Behold  the  poor  woman  once  more. 
Her  last  stick  is  upon  the  fire.  She  must  burn  it,  or  her  fin- 
gers will  be  so  benumbed  that  she  can  not  sew,  and  finish 
the  piece  of  work  in  her  hands,  which  is  to  bring  the  bread 
for  those  dear-  children  on  the  morrow.  At  last  it  is  finish- 
ed. The  weary  fingers  cease  their  motion  ;  the  last  portion 
of  wood  flickers  upon  the  hearth  ;  the  lamp  burns  dindy, 
and  the  aspect  of  all  around  is  dreary  and  sad. 

Hark!   the  mother  listens.     Perhaps  she  hears  her  hus- 
band's footsteps,  and,  oh,  that  he  may  be  sober  enough  not 
to  treat  her  with  unkindness !     Harsh  words  she  often  has 
from  him,  but  blows  are  so  dreadful.     It  is  not  his  step,  and 
she  kneels  to  ask,  with  Mrs.  Athearn,  the  reformation  of  her 
husband.     And  she  has  yet  more  to  ask  for.     She  knows 
what  it  is  to  pray,  ''Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  for 
she  knows  what  it  is  to  be  without  the  means  of  obtaining 
food  for  the  coming  day.     A  few  short  years  before,  and 
youth  and  beauty  was  her  portion  as  well  as  that  of  Mrs. 
Athearn  ;  but  while  Mary  Athearn  had  been  fi-om  childhood 
surrounded  by  wealth,  Lucy  Elwood  had  been  obliged  early 
in  life  to  earn  her  own  living.     But  never  till  the  present 
time  had  she  been  so  sadly  without  the  means  of  livelihood. 
An  intemperate  husband  and  a  home  of  poverty  were  with 
her  synonymous.     The  fair  prospects  of  her  youth  were  early 
clouded,  and  the  dark  cloud  was  that  of  intemperance.     For 
a  while  she  had  a  happy  home,  but  ere  long  she  found  that 
the  "worm  of  the  still"  was  gnawing  at  the  root  of  domes- 
tic peace  and  felicity. 

Footsteps  approach.  A  tap  at  her  door,  and  as  she  opens 
it,  she  perceives  relief  is  at  hand.  Mrs.  Athearn  and  her  at- 
tendants entered.  Tlie  basket  of  provisions  is  soon  opened, 
and  the  famishing  mother  requested  to  partake  freely.  She 
hesitates,  with  maternal  anxiety,  fearing  to  rob  her  children, 
but  ere  long  Mrs.  Athearn  came  in  full  possession  of  her  story, 
and  she  wa^s  urged  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  her  own  hunger, 
and  fear  not  for  her  children. 

"I  have  'enough  and  to  spare,'  "  said  Mrs.  Athearn,  "  and 


198  NEW     YEAK     A^^TICIPATIONS. 

yon  sluill  never  suffer  again  for  food  if  I  can  prevent  it.  I 
will  furnish  you  with  work,  and  you  shall  be  paid  punctual- 
ly, for  I  make  it  a  point  to  pay  all  who  work  for  me  imme- 
diately, knowing  that  a  dollar  to  them  may  be  of  more  value 
than  a  hundred  to  me,  and  they  can  not  well  wait  for  it." 

The  servant,  John,  was  then  dispatched  to  the  nearest 
proper  place,  in  order  to  purchase  some  fuel.  Tears  of  grat- 
itude course  down  the  pale,  attenuated  cheeks  of  the  sorrow- 
ing mother,  and  the  lamp  of  hope  is  relighted  in  that  lowly 
habitation,  as  Mrs.  Athearn  promises  to  find  employment  for 
the  husband  if  he  will  be  temperate.  Mrs.  Athearn's  heart 
ached,  as  she  required  temperance  of  Mr.  Elwood  ere  she 
would  provide  him  with  work,  for  she  knew  that  her  own 
husband  could  not  get  employment  upon  such  terms  at  pres- 
ent ;  and  though  he  drank  wine  and  brandy,  instead  of  rum 
and  whisky,  his  condition  afterward  was  no  higher  or  more 
desirable  than  that  of  the  less  wealthy  inebriate. 

The  old  housekeeper  aided  Mrs.  Elwood  in  preparing  a 
pleasant  fire,  and  comfortable  meal  for  herself  and  children, 
who  had  been  aroused  from  their  slumbers  by  the  voices  of 
the  charitable  visitors,  and  soon  nothing  was  wanting  to 
make  the  poor  mother's  heart  happy  but  the  presence  of  her 
husband  in  sobriety  and  kindness.  The  Old  Year  had  been 
one  of  painful  realities.  TLie  'New  Year  was  about  to  dawn 
with  brighter  anticipations.  A  familiar  footstep  caused  the 
mother  and  children  to  start,  and  gaze  toward  the  door  of 
the  humble  apartment,  with  mingled  emotions  of  hope  and 
dread.  Was  the  husband  and  father  coming  to  disturb  them 
with  the  freaks  of  drunkenness  ?  His  step  was  firmer  than 
usual.  Tliere  was  no  sound  of  ribald  song  and  silly  jest. 
Could  he  be  sober?  It  was  almost  too  much  for  the  exhaust- 
ed mother  to  hope,  and  suspense  was  soon  at  an  end,  as  Mr. 
Elwood  entered,  and  courteously  addressed  the  inmates  of  the 
room.  He  was  sober,  and  when  sober,  always  polite  and 
kind.  Intemperance  was  his  misfortune  rather  more*  than 
his  fault.  Tlie  overtasked  system  of  the  hard-working  and 
suffering  mother  could  not  endure  such  an  unusual  occur- 
rence, without  evincing  the  shock  which  such  a  sudden  tran- 
sition from  despair  to  hope  had  caused.     Her  husband  had 


OLD     TEAR     REALITIES     AND  199 

hardly  time  to  reacli  lier,  ere  she  fell,  fainting,  to  the  floor. 
Restoratives  were  immediately  applied,  hut  the  most  pow- 
erful of  all  was  the  hushand's  words,  "Lucy,  dear  Lucy,  / 

ha/ve  signed  the  Pledged 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  were  the  first  exclamations 
of  the  now  happy  wife.  She  had  not  needed  or  desired 
wealth  to  make  her  happy.  Her  hushand's  restoration  to 
the  path  of  virtue  was  enough,  and  the  cup  of  her  joy  seem- 
ed full.  Husband  and  wife  mingled  their  tears  together 
over  the  past,  and  together  now  indulged  in  brighter  hopes 

for  the  future. 

It  can  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Athearn,  young,  hand- 
some, rich,  and  talented,  could  look  upon  all  this  unmoved, 
for,  however  much  of  those  blessings  she  possessed,  she, 
too,  had  need  of  Mrs.  Elwood's  consolation.  Her  tears,  and 
those  of  her  kind-hearted  housekeeper,  attested  their  sincer- 
ity, as  they  thus  sympathized  with  the  reunited  family. 
With  the  true  delicacy  of  a  Christian  woman,  Mrs.  Athearn 
felt  that  she  and  her  attendants  should  remain  no  longer, 
and  they  departed ;  but  all  along  their  homeward  pathway, 
but  one  subject  rested  on  her  mind,  and  that  called  forth  the 
frequent  mental  exclamation,  '"What  God  hath  joW ^to- 
gether,' intoxicating  liquors  ought  not  'to  put  asunder! 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  they  arrived  at  their  own 
residence,  but  as  Mrs.  Athearn  knew  her  husband  seldom 
inquired  how  she  occupied  herself  in  his  absence,  and  she 
could  scarcelv  hope,  either,  to  find  him  at  home,  she  did  not 
fear  a  chiding  for  being  abroad  at  such  a  late  hour. 

Mrs.  Athearn  noticed  a  light  in  her  child's  chamber,  and 
wondering  at  the  unusual  circumstance,  immediately  pro- 
ceeded thither.  The  door  was  slightly  open.  A  low  mur- 
muring, as  of  the  voice  of  prayer,  reached  her  ears.  How 
her  heart  throbbed  at  such  an  unwonted  sound,  and  a  tliriU 
of  unutterable  joy  pervaded  her  whole  being  as  she  so  tly 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  beheld  her  husband,  so  ong  lost 
to  virtue  and  duty,  upon  his  knees  by  the  bedside  of  his 
(Mid  The  youn-  wife  stood  speechless.  He  paused  in  his 
prayer,  and  bowed  his  head  in  silence  on  the  pillow  of  his 
infant  daughter.     His  wife  felt,  though  slie  could  not  see, 


200  NEW     YE  Alt     ANTICirATIONS. 

that  lie  was  weeping,  and  tears  flowed  down  lier  own  clieeks, 
but  they  were  tears  of  joy.  For  a  season  no  sound  was 
heard  in  that  chamber  of  emotion,  and  tlien  that  emotion 
became  uncontrollable,  and  Mrs.  Athearn's  sobs  informed 
her  husband  of  her  presence.     He  advanced  toward  her. 

"Mary,''  said  he,  "we  will  be  happy  together  once  more. 
I  have  signed  the  Pledge." 

"  Oh,  how  thankful  I  am?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Athearn.  "I 
can  now  understand  the  feelings  of  the  j)oor  woman  I  have 
been  visiting,"  added  she,  after  a  short  pause  ;  "  her  husband 
signed  the  Pledge  to-night,  and  she  was  so  happy,  but  not 
happier  than  I  am,  I  think." 

•' AVhat  was  her  name?"  inquired  Mr.  Athearn. 

''Elwood,"  was  the  reply. 
El  wood !     A  tall,  black  whiskered  man  about  thirty  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  he  was  the  very  man  who  rose,  and  related  his 
experience  first  as  a  moderate  drinker,  and  then  as  a  com- 
mon drunkard,  in  the  temperance  meeting  which  curiosity 


> 


or  the  hand  of  God,  led  me  to  attend  this  evening,  as  I  was 
on  my  way  to  my  Club.  He  told  so  sad  a  story  of  his  wife 
and  children,  and  pictured  his  wife's  patience,  and  forbear- 
ance, and  love  for  him,  even  in  his  worst  moments,  that  my 
hard  heart  w^as  touched.  I  thought  of  my  own  gentle  wife. 
I  knew  she  was  not  suffering  as  his  wife  was  for  the  necessa- 
ries of  life,  but  you  suffered  in  mind  from  my  neglect  and 
unworthiness.  My  gentle  Mary !  how  I  have  caused  you  to 
suffer!" 

"Say  no  more,  Alfred  ;  all  is  forgiven.  But  how  did  you 
know  that  the  speaker  was  Elwood  ?" 

"Why,  after  his  narration  of  his  sad  experience  he  com- 
plied with  a  previous  invitation,  and  signed  his  name  to  the 
Pledge,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  '  I  will  sign  my  name,  and  it 
will  be  the  best  ^^ew  Year's  present  I  can  make  to  my  wife.' 
I  followed  him  and  wrote  my  name  under  his,  thinking  of 
the  joy  my  dear  wife  would  have." 

"  Oh,  yes,  how  happy  I  am  now !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Athearn. 
"  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  feel  grateful  to  Mr.  Elwood  as  the 
instrument  by  whom  you  w^ere  led  to  give  me  such  y 


OLD     YEAK     KEALITIES     AND 


201 


"And  all  tliat  time  my  wife  was  giving  joy  to  Elwood'a 
family,"  remarked  her  hnsband ;  "  I  am  glad  it  was  so." 

On  tke  following  morning,  Mr.  Athearn  himself  called  on 
Mr.  Elwood,  and  offered  him  employment,  which  was  thank- 
fully accepted.  At  his  return  he  found  the  Kew  Year's  table 
spread,  as  usual,  but  his  joyful  wife  whispered  to  him,  as  he 
entered,  "I  have  not  placed  any  wine  upon  the  tables.' 

"  That  is  right,"  replied  he  ;  "  I  wish  no  intoxicating  liquors 
of  any  kind  upon  my  table  henceforth." 

"  But  do  you  not  think  our  callers  will  be  surprised^ 
"  I  presume  so,  and  for  that  reason  I  shall  remain  with 
you  until  some  of  them  have  been  informed  of  the  cause. 

Mrs.  Athearn  smiled  her  thanks,  and  but  a  short  time 
elapsed  ere  one  of  Mr.  Athearn's  boon  companions  entered 
and  after  the  usual  compliments,  seeing  no  wines,  ventured 
to  ask  after  an  exhilarating  draught. 

"  I  shall  never  permit  alcoholic  mixtures  upon  my  board 
a-ain,  Williams.     I  have  signed  the  temperance  pledge, 
was  the  calm  and  -noble  reply  of  Mr.  Athearn.     His  friend 
bit  his  lip  in  silence,  for  politeness  would  not  allow  hma  to 
offer  the  bitter  retort  which  arose  in  his  mmd,  and  Mr. 
Athearn  proceeded  to  narrate,  in  words  most  eloquent,  the 
excellent  reasons  which  led  to  such  a  blessed  result.     His 
wife  stood  near  attesting  her  sympathy  by  the  fast-flowing 
though-unbidden,  tears.     Gradually  the  visitors  present  had 
drawn  toward  him,  till  he  had  quite  an  audience,  and  his 
words  were  far  from  falling  powerless  upon  their  ears.     Mr. 
■Williams  had  a  wife  at  home  who  had  too  often  suffered  as 
the   inebriate's  wife  alone   can  suffer,   and   his   heart  was 
touched  by  Mr.  Athearn's  words,  till  at  the  close  of  his  re- 
marks, Mr.  Williams  exclaimed :  .       •     ^  ;i 
''  Hand  me  a  pledge,  Athearn,  and  I  will  sign  it,  too,  and 
2-0  home  and  tell  my  wife  of  it." 

"So  will  I '"  "So  will  I !"  echoed  several  others.  VV  itU 
heartfelt  ioy,"  Mrs.  Athearn  prepared  the  pledge,  and  soon 
the  signatures  of  every  man  in  the  room  were  appended, 
and  they  departed  to  make  glad  the  hearts  of  their  families. 
Tliat  was,  indeed,  a  pleasant  and  profitable  New  1  ear  8 
Day,  and  not  one  of  those  who  then  signed  the  noble  Tem- 


202  A     WINTRY     LANDSCAPE. 

perance  Pledge  ever  fliiled  to  keep  it.  Elwood  was  faithful 
alsoj  and  to  both  rich  and  poor  the  blessings  of  temper anco 
]3roved  alike  acceptable. 

Reader,  have  jou  signed  a  similar  Pledge  ?  If  not,  why 
not  imitate  Athearn  and  Elwood,  and  perhaps  you  will 
make  some  heart  joyful,  and  change  the  Old  Year  sad 
realities  into  Kew  Year's  bright  anticipations,  which  coming 
seasons  shall  see  happily  realized. 


A  WINTRY  LANDSCAPE. 

BY    MRS.    L,.    G.    ABELL. 

The  lofty  pines  look  down  with  scorn 

Upon  the  leafless  trees, 
And  wave  their  plumes  amid  the  storm 

As  they  shiver  in  the  breeze. 
They  feel,  themselves,  no  cold  or  snow, 

In  vestments  warm  and  green, 
But  the  bare  old  trees  in  the  vale  below 

Are  pierced  by  blasts  so  keen. 

Their  song  of  mirth  is  loud  and  clear 

As  the  winds  through  their  branches  hie, 
They  care  not  for  stifled  sob  or  tear, 

Nor  the  poor  tree's  wailing  cry. 
The  storm  to  the  pine  brings  a  thrill  of  delight, 

But  the  old  tree's  shattered  door 
Rattles  and  howls  through  the  live-long  night 

To  represent  the  poor/ 

Borne  with  the  weight  of  sorrow  Qown, 

A  freezing  load  they  bear, 
Or  else  imploringly  around 

They  gaze  in  mute  despair ! 
How  full  of  teachings  Nature's  Book! 

Then  let  us  read  and  learn 
What  God  unfolds  in  every  look, 

And  thus  His  will  discern. 


THE     MICROSCOPE.  203 

WONDEES    OF    THE    MICROSCOPE. 

BY      C  .      WING  ATE  . 

"If,"  says  a  quaint  writer,   "the  Author  of  Nature  i8 
great  'in  great  things,  yet  is  he  exceedingly  great  in  small 
ones  ;"   and  in  nothing  is  this  more  evident  than  in  those 
wonderful  discoveries   revealed  to  us   by  the  microscope. 
While  the  telescope  unfolds  to  the  astonished  gaze  of  the 
astronomer  millions  of  starry  worlds,  so  far  removed  from 
us  that  the  light  that  renders  them  visible  requires  thousands 
of  years  to  reach  us,  and  may  continue  to  reach  us  thousands 
of  years  after  the  stars  themselves  have  been  struck  from 
existence ;  the  microscope,  on  the  other  hand,  reveals  to  us 
a  world  of  minute  organic  life  equally  beyond  the  powers 
of  the  Imman  intellect  to  enumerate  or  comprehend.     In 
every  di'op  of  water,  on  every  leaf  of  the  forest,  there  may 
be  thousands  of  living  beings,  perfect  in  all  their  parts,  pos- 
sessing bones,  muscles,  nerves,  and  all  the  orgamzation  of 
the  largest  animals,  while  they  themselves  are  mvisible  to 
the  imaided  eye,  and  thousands  of  them  can  lie  on  the  pomt 
of  one's  finger,  and  an  egg-shell  contains  more  of  them  than 
the  entire  human  population  of  the  globe.     Kot  only  does 
the  minuteness  of  these  microscopic  animals  fill  the  mnid 
with  astonishment,  but  their  immense  number  are  equally 
difficult  to  conceive  of.  Thousands  of  square  miles  of  the  earth's 
surface  consist  almost  entirely  of  the  stony  skeletons  of  these 
minute  animals ;  and  the  limestone  rocks,  of  which  a  great 
part  of  our  planet's  crust  is  composed,  as  well  as  the  coral 
islands  which  dot  the  whole  extent  of  the  Southern  and  Pa- 
cific oceans,  are  almost  entirely  the  product  of  little  atomies, 
which  would  perish  by  hundreds  under  the  foot-tread  ot  a 

man.  ^     ,  .^    .  i.\ 

Science  is  hourly  instructing  us  in  the  lesson  that  the  mi- 
croscopic life  which  teems  in  the  ocean,  on  the  land,  and  m 
the  air  plays  a  far  higher  and  more  important  part  m  the 
economv  of  nature  than  has  hitherto  been  assigned  to  it; 
that  those  things  which  seem  great  and  wonderful  to  ua 
in  the  operations  of  nature,  are  immeasurably  surpassed  m 


204  THE     MICKOSCOPE. 

force  and  extent  by  those  beings  which,  without  the  micro- 
scope, can  not  be  seen  at  alb 

The  invention  of  tlie  microscope  has  been  attributed  to 
various  individuals.  By  some,  the  famous  Roger  Bacon,  to 
whom  are  attributed  many  discoveries  affecting  the  present 
position  of  science  and  the  welfare  of  mankind,  is  regarded 
as  the  inventor  of  this  important  and  useful  instrument. 
By  others  it  is  attributed  to  Janson,  a  Dutch  spectacle-maker, 
who,  if  not  the  original  inventor,  is  generally  regarded  as 
the  one  who  perfected  the  instrument  and  brought  it  into  use 
during  the  reign  of  James  II.,  about  the  year  1680.  The 
celebrated  Isaac  IN^ewton,  Hooke,  and  other  learned  persons 
of  that  period,  gave  much  attention  to  the  improvement  of 
the  microscope. 

In  1738,  Dr.  Nathaniel  Lieberkuhn,  of  Berlin,  invented 
the  solar  microscope,  an  instrument  by  which  the  magni- 
fied image  of  an  object  was  projected  on  a  screen,  hung  up 
in  a  darkened  room,  by  which  means  a  large  number  of  per- 
sons could  examine  an  object  at  the  same  time. 

The  objection  to  this  instrument  is,  that  it  only  gives  the 
shadow  of  the  object  to  be  viewed,  and  though  this  may  be 
magnified  several  million  times,  thus  forming  an  image  of 
enormous  proportions,  yet  it  fails  to  give  any  color^  or  even 
any  thing  except  the  outline  of  the  object  examined.  In 
consequence  of  this  defect,  the  compound  microscope  has 
in  a  great  degree  superseded  the  solar  microscope ;  and  by 
the  aid  of  complicated  arrangements,  based  upon  scientific 
principles  and  executed  with  consummate  skill,  this  instru 
ment  has  attained  to  a  high  degree  of  perfection.  Without 
diagrams  it  is  very  difficult  to  give  any  clear  idea  of  its  con- 
struction, and  we  shall  only  attempt  to  give  a  general  idea 
of  its  principles : 

The  object  to  be  examined  is  placed  on  a  small  table  or 
support,  and  strongly  illuminated  by  a  concave  mirror.  The 
light  is  reflected  through  a  prism  so  placed  that  all  the  light 
falling  on  it  shall  be  reflected  on  an  object-glass  placed  just 
over  it ;  and  the  magnified  image  thus  produced  is  viewed 
through  a  compound  eye-piece.  The  magnifying  power  of 
the  instrument  is  found  by  multiplying  the  power  of  the 


THE     MICROSCOPE.  205 

object-glass  bv  tlie  power  of  tlie  eye-glass.  Tims,  if  each 
glass  magnifies  20  times,  the  two  will  magnify  20  x  20  =  400, 
and  the  image  thus  formed  will  be  400  times  longer  and 
400  times  broader  than  the  object;  and  its  surface  will  be 
400  X  400  =  16,000  greater ;  while  its  cubical  bulk  must,  of 
course,  be  160,000  x  400  =  64,000,000  times  larger.  By 
having  different  sets  of  glasses  of  various  powers,  this  won- 
derful instrument  can  be  ada})ted  to  a  great  variety  of  uses, 
and  has  been  the  means  of  shedding  great  light  on  many 
subjects  which  had  hitherto  defied  all  the  powers  of  man  to 
explain,  and  given  us  new  and  wondrous  views  of  the  power 
and  wisdom  of  the  Great  Creator. 

An  object  can  be  seen  with  perfect  distinctness  when 
mao;nified  500  times  in  linear  dimensions,  or  250,000  times 
in  surface  ;  but  when  powers  of  1,000  or  2,000  are  used,  the 
outlines  of  the  images  become  dim  and  confused.  In  actual 
practice,  however,  there  is  seldom  any  occasion  to  use  so 
high  powers,  as  an  image  sufiiciently  large  to  cover  a  dime 
can  be  produced  from  an  object  the  thousandth  part  of  an 
inch  in  diameter,  and  requiring  one  thousand  million  of  them 
to  fill  a  cubic  inch. 

But  as  an  object  the  Mindredth  jpart  of  an  inch  is  distinctly 
visible  to  the  naked  eye,  it  follows  that  the  microscope  will 
render  visible  any  object  which  is  not  less  than  one  fifty 
thousandth  part  of  an  inch  in  length  and  breadth,  and  of 
which  it  would  require  (50,000=)  125,000,000,000,000  to  fill 
a  cubic  inch ;  a  number  as  unmeasurable  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  the  human  mind  as  eternity  itself.  Yet  we 
have  every  reason  to  suppose  that  if  this  instrument  could 
be  increased  in  power  to  an  indefinite  extent,  we  should  still 
find  no  limits  to  the  decreasing  series  of  animal  life.  As  the 
astronomer,  sweeping  the  heavens  with  his  telescope,  dis- 
covers new  systems  of  worlds  in  the  dim  regions  of  space, 
and  every  additional  power  given  to  his  instrument  only 
renders  visible  still  greater  numbers  of  rolling  worlds,  so  it 
is  but  the  sober  dictate  of  reason  to  infer,  that  if  our  vision 
could  be  rendered  more  and  more  piercing,  and  progres- 
sively advance  from  the  minutely  visible,  through  the  suc- 
cessive realms  of  the  invisible,  exploring  onward  toward  the 

12 


20G  THE    MICKOSCOPE. 

inner  shrine  of  nature,  tluit  new  scenes  of  beauty  would  be 
continually  unfolded,  and  new  fields  of  Omniscient  display 
would  be  constantly  revealing,  that  God  was  still  before  us 
in  His  creative  energy — that  we  saw  "  but  the  hidings  of  His 
power."  And  as  we  traced  our  steps  backward  to  the  visi- 
ble through  all  the  glorious  realms  that  had  been  brought  to 
light,  we  should  feel  the  truth  that  this  outer  world  is  but 
the  casket  in  which  the  riches  of  creation  are  enshrined. 

Guided  by  this  wonderful  instrument,  the  student  of  nature 
learns  that  what  he  has  looked  upon  as  mere  masses  of  stone 
and  sand,  are  in  reality  but  the  congregated  skeletons  of  ani- 
mals too  minute  for  the  unaided  eye  to  discover ;  and  that  the 
largest  mountains  are  composed  of  the  strong  shells  of  in- 
sects, so  small  that  millions  may  be  contained  in  a  cubic 
inch — that  even  the  depths  of  the  mighty  ocean  have  been 
filled  with  them ;  and  vast  islands  have  been  reared  from 
immeasurable  depths  by  the  combined  labors  of  little  atomies 
too  minute  to  be  seen,  and  compared  with  whose  labors  the 
mightiest  eflorts  of  human  skill  shrink  into  insignificance. 
Tlie  celebrated  Dr.  Ehrenberg,  who  devoted  a  large  part  of 
his  life  to  the  investigation  of  this  subject,  and  who  has  done 
more  to  elucidate  it  than  any  other  person,  has  ascertained 
that  no  less  than  Jive  hinds  of  rocks  are  made  up  wholly  or 
in  part  of  the  fossil  shells  of  animalcules,  and  that  three  other 
kinds  have  probably  the  same  origin.  Bog-iron  ore,  a  sub- 
stance constantly  forming  in  low,  marshy  ground,  and  the 
origin  of  which  has  long  puzzled  naturalists,  has  been  found 
to  consist  of  mic7'oscojpic  shells  /  while  the  vast  beds  of  chalk, 
forming  immense  strata,  hundreds  of  miles  in  extent,  and  in 
some  instances  a  thousand  or  more  feet  in  thickness,  and  in 
many  places  rising  up  into  vast  mountain  ranges,  are  so  filled 
with  the  remains  of  these  shells,  that  they  are  detected  in  the 
smallest  portion  of  chalk  that  can  be  taken  up  on  the  point 
<  of  a  knife- 
As  limestone,  in  all  its  various  forms,  is  of  the  same  na- 
:ture  as  chalk,  it  is  but  reasonable  to  refer  it  to  the  same 
origin ;  and  yet  one-twentieth  part  of  all  the  strata  of  the 
-earth  is  supposed  to  consist  of  limestone.  The  nodules  of 
flint  found  imbedded  in  chalk  strata,  and  yet  so  entirely  iin- 


THE    MICROSCOPE.  207 

like  clialk  in  every  respect,  that  it  was  for  a  long  time  very- 
difficult  to  account  for  their  origin,  consist  almost  entirely 
of  the  shells  of  animalcules,  mingled  with  the  scales  of  fishes, 
zoophytes,  and  the  remains  of  minute  animals.  In  a  single 
chip  of  flint,  not  exceeding  the  twelfth  of  an  inch  in  diame- 
ter, more  than  twenty  of  these  shells  have  been  detected, 
some  of  them  not  more  than  one  five-hundredth  of  an  inch 
in  diameter.  Li  the  northern  parts  of  Germany  are  found 
large  deposits  of  a  substance  known  as  tripoli,  and  extensively 
used  as  a  polishing  material,  many  tons  of  which  are  annu- 
ally used  for  this  purpose.  The  microscope  reveals  to  us 
the  wonderful  fact,  that  this  substance  is  almost  entirely  com- 
posed of  the  fossil  remains  of  animalcules,  so  extremely 
small,  that  a  single  cubic  inch  is  estimated  to  contain  forty 
thousand  millions,  and  that  one  hundi-ed  and  eighty-seven 
millions  are  required  to  weigh  a  single  grain.  To  many,  this 
statement  will  appear  incredible,  but  a  moment's  considera- 
tion will  show  that,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  based  on 
a  solid  foundation.  The  magnifying  power  of  a  microscope 
is  capable  of  mathematical  demonstration ;  and  the  image 
formed  by  it  can  be  measured  with  perfect  exactness.  For  ex- 
ample, it  is  known  that  the  magnifying  power  is  one  thousand^ 
and  the  image  produced  by  the  object  under  examination,  is 
one-fourth  of  an  inch  long  ;  a  fact  that  can  be  ascertained  as 
easily  as  one  could  measure  the  length  of  a  sheet  of  paper 
or  any  other  substance.  It  then  necessarily  follows  that  the 
object  must  be  one  four-thmcso/ndth  of  fm  inch  in  length  ; 
and  from  this,  the  number  contained  in  any  given  space  can 
be  easily  found  by  a  simple  arithmetical  process.  If  such 
are  the  numbers  of  beings  living  in  so  minute  a  space,  what 
must  be  the  numbers  contained  in  the  vast  beds  of  chalk  and 
limestone,  covering  thousands  of  square  miles,  and  in  the 
immense  deposits  of  marl  to  be  found  in  all  parts  of  the  con- 
tinent ?    Truly  may  the  poet  say, 

•«  All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom." 

But  not  only  do  we  find  vast  beds  of  the  flinty  remains  of 


208                                        THEMICKOSCOPE.  | 

animalcules,  and  liugc  mountain  ranges  built  almost  entirely  ! 
of  their  fos-sil  skeletons,  but  the  waters  of  the  ocean  abound 
with  tliem  in  an  equal  degi-ee.     Navigators  have  frequently 
noticed,  in  all  parts  of  the  ocean,  that  extensive  tracts  of 

water  are  frequently  discolored  at  a  great  distance  from  land.  j 

Mr.  Scoresby  relates,  that  one-fourth  of  the  Greenland  Sea,  | 

comprising  an  area  of  20,000  miles,  is  colored  a  deep  olive  i 

green.     The  cause  of  this  singular  appearance  was  for  a  long  ' 
time  unknown,  but  the  microscope  has  at  length  revealed  the 

secret.     Millions  of  minute  animals^  so  small  as  to  he  invisi-  , 

hie  to  the  naked  eye,  swarm  in  these  loatei's,  and  give  it  their  \ 

own  color.     In  some  instances  they  are  green,  in  others  yel-  , 

low ;    giving  the   water   the   appearance   of   having   been  ! 

sprinkled  with  sulphur ;  while  in  other  places  the  sea  has  i 

ap])eared  a  dark  red,  as  though  discolored  with  blood.     So  1 
exceedingly  minute  are  these  animals,  that  a  single  drop  of 

water,  and  that  not  the  most  discolored,  was  found  to  con-  \ 

tain  more  than  twenty-six  thousand  animalcules ;  and  Mr.  \ 

Scoresby  has  computed  that  in  a  tumbler  of  water  one  hun-  i 

(J/red  and  fifty  millions  of  these  animalcules  would  fund  ample  \ 

room.     And  yet  we  find  them  equally  abundant  over  many  ■ 
thousand  square  miles  of  the  ocean,  where  it  is  a  thousand 
or  more  feet  in  depth.     What  countless  millions  must  be 

contained  in  a  single  cubic  foot  of  water  !  how  infinite  the  i 

multitude  that  swarm  the  ocean !  \ 

The  phosphorescence  of  the  sea  is  another  example  of  the  i 
solution  of  a  problem,  by  the  aid  of  the  microscope,  which 

had  long  remained  a  mystery,  and  probably  without  its  as-  I 
sistance  would  never  have  been  solved.     Tliis  strange  and 

interesting  phenomenon,  which  has  so  often  excited  the  won-  i 

der  and  admiration  of  the  mariner,  is  now  clearly  shown  to  ' 
depend  upon  the  presence  of  vast  multitudes  of  animalcules, 

with  which  the  sea  at  times  is  filled,  and  which  emit  a  bright  | 

phosphoric  light  when  the  water  is  agitated.     Though  some  : 

few  of  these  animals  are  quite  large,  yet  the  most  of  them  i 

are  exceedingly  minute,  varying  from  the  one-hundredth  to  | 

the  one-thousandth  of  an  inch  in  length.     The  phosphoric  | 

light  emitted  by  these  creatures  is  regarded  by  naturalists  ; 

as  the  effect  of  vital  action ;  it  appears  as  a  single  spark,  like  j 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS.  209 

that  of  tlie  fire-fly,  and  can  be  repeated  in  a  similar  manner 
at  short  intervals. 

By  the  united  action  of  these  countless  millions  of  animals 
is  produced  that  brilliant  glow  which,  in  the  tropics  particu-" 
larly,  gives  to  the  inexperienced  traveler  the  impression 
that  he  is  sailing  over  a  sea  of  liquid  fire. 

Time  and  space  would  fail  me  in  the  attempt  to  describe 
all  the  uses  of  this  wondrous  instrument ;  or  even  to  enu- 
merate the  many  contributions  to  scientific  knowledge  made 
through  its  agency.  While  the  telescope  unfolds  to  our 
astonished  gaze  millions  upon  millions  of  worlds,  rolling 
in  the  dim  regions  of  measureless  space,  compared  with 
which  our  own  planet  is  but  a  grain  of  sand ;  while  it  tells 
us  that  even  the  faint  patches  of  flickering  light  scarcely 
visible  in  the  heavens  consist  of  mighty  suns,  whose  times 
and  measure  the  mind  of  man  can  form  no  conception  of; 
the  microscope,  on  the  other  hand,  shows  us  a  descending 
serries  of  animal  life,  reaching  down  to  depths  equally  beyond 
our  comprehension,  and  teaching  us  that  in  wisdom,  as  well 
as  in  power  and  majesty,  the  paths  of  the  Most  High  are 
indeed  past  finding  out. 


TWILIGHT   MUSINGS. 

BY     J.     B.     HOAG. 

I  LOVE  the  trw'''.ght's  gentle  hour, 
'Tis  then  wild  fancy  loves  to  stray, 

And  yield  to  calm  reflection's  power, 
And  watch  the  light's  departing  ray. 

How  sweet  to  bid  dull  care  be  gone, 
And  lift  our  hearts  to  things  above, 

And  think  of  days  forever  flown, 
Of  friends  that  we  most  dearly  love! 

The  scenes  of  childhood  to  review. 

When  care  was  stranger  to  our  breast. 
And  rankling  sorrows  were  but  few, 
But  all  conspired  to  make  us  blest. 


210  TO     THE     AMBITIOrS. 

To  those  glad  scenes  where  youth  was  passed, 

In  this  sweet  hour  will  memory  stray, 
Those  happy  scenes,  too  bright  to  last, 
And  much-loved  friends  now  far  away. 

Some  now  have  gone  to  distant  climes, 
And  some  beneath  the  valley's  sod, 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  life  and  time. 
Rejoicing  with  their  Maker,  God. 

Life's  frailty  to  such  lessons  teach. 
And  bid  us  with  most  earnest  care. 

While  life  is  spared,  that  all  and  each 
For  that  blest  home  in  heaven  prepare. 

O  sweet  this  lovely,  pensive  hour, 

For  pure  and  holy  thought  'tis  given. 
That  we  may  feel  reflection's  power. 

And  raise  our  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven. 


TO    THE     AMBITIOUS. 

BY     X.      B.      HOAG. 


The  star  of  fame  has  more  attractions  for  many  than  any 
other  in  Nature's  horizon ;  and  many  there  are  who,  when 
they  set  sail  on  the  ocean  of  life,  attracted  by  the  brilliancy 
of  its  rays,  in  their  desire  to  come  under  their  genial  influ- 
ence, lose  sight  of  what  should  be  the  beacon  to  guide  them 
across  life's  uncertain  sea,  and  ere  they  are  aware,  they  find 
themselves  shipwrecked  on  the  di-eary  shoals  and  quicksands 
of  unwelcome  disappointment. 

Could  the  aspirants  to  fame  but  become  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  those  who  have  placed  their  names  high  on 
the  pinnacle  of  fame,  and  the  means  they  have  employed  to 
accomplish  their  desired  end,  and  the  results  of  these  means, 
so  far  as  others  were  concerned,  methinks  that  so  far  from 
its  inspiring  in  them  a  disposition  to  imitate  their  example, 
it  must  fill  them  with  horror  and  disgust.  But  we  are  too 
apt  to  allow  ourselves  to  be  dazzled  with  the  splendbr  of 
their  great  achievements,  and  the  luster  of  the  high  posi 


TO     THE     AMBITIOUS.  211 

tion  they  occupy,  ^vliile  we  lose  siglit  of  the  facts  con- 
nected with  their  history,  which  are  revolting  in  the 
exti-eme,  and  shock  every  feeling  of  sensibility  and  hu- 
manity. 

Even  now  I  fancy  I  can  see  the  deserted  homes,  the  cheer 
less  firesides,  and  hear  the  wails  of  hopeless  widows  and 
orphans,  who  have  been  made  such  by  the  mad  votaries  of 
ambition.      There  is  nothing  incompatible  mth  the  most 
rigid  standard  of  right  in  the  desire  to  maintain  an  unblem- 
ished  reputation,  and  meriting  the  approbation  of  those 
around  us ;  but  so  far  from  it,  this  desire  springs  from  the 
possession  of  one  of  the  most  important  traits  of  character, 
and  they  are  not  far  from  ruin  who  can  unblushingly  de- 
clare themselves  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  others ;  but  it 
is  sacrificing  other  higher  and  nobler  faculties  to  this,  and 
exercising  this  at  the  expense  of  those  with  which  we  are 
endowed  for  the  most  high  and  noble  purposes,  that  we 

condemn.  .  i    ^i      i        a 

The  pathway  to  earthly  glory  is  marked  with  blood,  and 
sighs  and  gi'oans  fan  the  wi-eath  that  decks  the  brow  of  those 
who  have  attained  a  high  position  of  earthly  honor.     When 
we  take  a  retrospective  view  of  the  world,  and  look  through 
the  vista  of  the  past,  we  find  that  high  positions  of  earthly 
ago-randizement  have  ordinarily  been  obtained  at  the  expense 
of  tiie  happiness  and  well-being  of  the  multitude.    The  his- 
tory of  the  great  of  earth  is  but  a  dark  recital  of  aggression 
and  Ts^-ong.     How  much  m.ore  to  be  coveted  is  the  position 
of  those  who,  influenced  by  a  desire  to  benefit  their  fellow- 
men,  have  done  what  lay  in  their  power  to  enhance  the 
happiness,  mitigate  the  woes,  and  lessen  the  sorrows  of  those 
around  them ;  whose  disinterested  acts  of  benevolence  have 
called  forth  spontaneous  bursts  of  applause  from  those  whom 
they  have  relieved,  and  generations,  then  miborn,  have  been 
induced  to  lisp  their  praises  and  bless  their  names.    Dearer, 
far  dearer  to  me,  is  the  heartfelt  acknowledgment  of  fiivors 
received,  from  those  whose  necessities  I  have  been  instru- 
mental in  relieving,  than  all  the  demonstrations  of  applause 
the  thoughtless  multitude  could  bestow;  and  rather  would  1 
•  have  the  satisfaction  of  the  reflection  that  I  had  been  the 


212  TO     TUE     AMBITIOUS. 

iustrumeiit  in  tlie  hand  of  Heaven  of  mitigating  tlie  woes 
of  my  fellow-men,  than  possess  the  brightest  gem  that  ever 
decked  the  brow  of  the  monarch. 

It  is  instructive  to  analyze  the  faculties  that  compose  the 
human  mind,  and  make  ourselves  acquainted  with  the  nature 
of  each  and  every  component  of  the  character  of  man,  and 
see  how  plainly  shines  forth  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of 
our  beneficent  Creator  in  endowino-  us  with  faculties  which 
qualify  us  for  the  discharge  of  the  duties  that  devolve  on 
us  in  the  different  relations  of  life  we  are  called  upon  to 
sustain.  There  are  no  faculties  that  we  possess  that  tend 
more  to  the  elevation  of  the  human  character,  that  assimi- 
late us  to  the  character  of  those  angelic  beings  that  throng 
the  world  above,  or  render  us  more  like  Him  who  left  His 
Father's  bright  abode  to  benefit  an  apostate  world,  than 
those  faculties  which  induce  us  to  weep  with  those  who 
weep,  and  sympathize  with  those  who  are  the  subjects  of 
affliction.  Tliese  are  the  most  godlike  in  their  character, 
and  it  is  when  we  act  under  the  influence  of  these  that  we 
come  nearest  toward  fulfilling  our  high  and  exalted  destiny. 
Strike  these  from  the  character  of  man,  and  he  would  be 
better  fitted  for  the  society  of  fiends  in  the  world  of  darkness 
below,  than  for  the  companionship  of  intelligent  beings  in 
a  world  like  this,  marred  by  the  traces  of  sin,  where  sufifer- 
ing  and  sorrow  are  so  prevalent.  If  this  be  true,  then  how 
much  more  detestable  is  he  who,  being  endowed  by  his  Cre- 
ator with  these  high  and  noble  qualities  of  mind,  will  not 
allow  himself  to  be  influenced  by  them,  but  turns  a  deaf  ear 
to  all  the  cries  of  misery  that  assail  him !  He  who  possesses 
a  desire  to  benefit  his  fellow-men,  can  easily  find  opportuni- 
ties to  put  his  benevolent  desires  into  practice.  We  are 
surrounded  on  every  hand  by  those  whose  hapless  condition 
calls  loudly  upon  us  for  friendly  interference  in  their  behalf, 
and  if  so  disposed,  we  can  act  the  part  of  the  good  Samari- 
tan constantly. 

He  who  makes  a  profession  of  attachment  to  the  cause  of 
his  Redeemer,  and  yet  has  no  heart  to  sympathize  with  the 
afflicted  of  his  race,  no  disposition  to  reach  forth  the  helj)ing 
hand,  and  lighten  the  load  of  sufiering  that  crushes  his 


LEAEN     TO     SING.  213 

L.   Jier  to  eartli,  lias  good  reason  to  be  distrustful  of  the 
truth  and  genumeness  of  that  attachment. 

The  history  of  the  workl  furnishes  us  ^vith  the  example 
of  many  who  have  nobly  devoted  the  energies  of  their  na- 
ture and  the  bounties  of  a  kind  Providence,  to  ameliorating 
the  condition  of  those  around  them.     Of  these,  prominently 
stand  the  names  of  Howard,  of  early  times,  and  Gurney  and 
Hopper  of  our  own  age.     The  acts  of  disinterested  benevo- 
lence which  characterized  the  lives  of  these  men,  stand  as  a 
lasting  monument  to  their  memory,  and  have  woven  for 
them  a  brighter  garland  than  was  ever  worn  by  the  most 
successful  conqueror  the  world  ever  saw.     O  !  if  selfishness 
could  but  be  overcome,  and  the  benign  principles  of  the 
gospel  be  the  rule  of  action  for  the  children  of  men,  it 
would  go  far  toward  changing  this  world  from  a  scene  of  wo 
to  a  paradise  of  bliss. 


LEARN    TO    SING. 

BY     REV.     W.     C.     WHITCOMB.* 

So  deenlv  impressed  was  one  celebrated  man  of  the  immense  importance  and  influence  of 
mSc'tharirfssSd  to  have  exclaimed,  "  Let  who  will  make  the  laws  of  the  people ;  but  1^ 
me  make  their  songs."  * 

Music  is  one  of  the  best  promoters  6f  domestic  happiness. 
As  an  awakener  of  sympathies  and  a  uniter  of  hearts,  there  is 
no  agent  more  efficient,  next  to  the  religion  of  the  gospel. 
It  humanizes  and  elevates  the  depraved  soul,  enlivens  hos- 
pitality, and  excludes  the  demons  of  discord  from  the  home 
circle      'Tis  ofttimes  as  necessary  to  soothe  tlie  othenvise 
ruffled  spirit,  as  was  David's  harp  to  calm  the  turbulent 
breast  of  Saul.    It  lightens  care,  heightens  joy,  and  increases 
coniugal,  parental,  filial,  and  fraternal  affection.     Hence,  in 
all  families  where  there  are  individuals  who  can  smg  with 
the  voice,  or  play  on  instruments,  there  should  be  a  good 
deal  of  music.     I  would  that  there  were  more  pianos   and 
melodeons,   and  parlor   organs  in   the  habitations  of  the 
people,  and  also  more  of  vocal  music  among  husbands  and 


214 


LEAEN     TO     SING. 


-wives,  fathers  and  motliers,  brotliers  and  sisters.  But  espe- 
cially, I  would  to  God  there  were  singing  and  the  voice  of 
melody  and  praise  around  every  family  altar ^  where,  night 
and  morn,  the  members  of  pious  households  take  delight  in 
assembling,  to  pay  their  vows  imto  the  Most  Iligh. 

Let  parents  cultivate  the  power  to  sing,  not  only  the 
infant's  soothing  lullaby,  but  hymns  fraught  with  truthful, 
religious  sentiments,  for  the  benefit,  present  and  everlasting, 
of  their  little  ones.  The  words  of  a  song  will  not  unfre- 
quently  outlive  the  most  eloquent  of  sermons  in  the  memory 
of  the  young.  How  important,  therefore,  that  memories 
which  commence  life  be  favored  with  songs  worthy  of  last- 
vng  till  life's  close,  and  of  influencing  the  soul  while  ages  on 
ages  roll  their  unceasing  rounds  in  the  endless  day  of  heaven. 
When  the  glorious  truths  of  Inspiration  are  breathed  forth 
in  expressive  melody,  they  are  clothed  with  the  power  of  a 
diviner  eloquence  than  the  pulpit  of  the  preacher  or  the  plat- 
form of  the  orator  can  boast  of.  O  ye,  upon  whom  is  im- 
posed the  responsibility  of  imparting  instruction  to  children, 

"  Teacli  them  some  melodious  measure, 
Sung  by  raptured  tongues  above, 
Fill  their  souls  with  sacred  pleasure. 
While  they  sing  Redeeming  love." 

M^ny  of  the  ancients,  and  one  modern  infidel  writer,  con- 
sidered music  as  an  accidental  discovery  of  the  Egyptians, 
while  listening  to  the  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the 
reeds  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Nile.  But,  methinks,  could 
they  enter  some  of  om*  common  schools,  and  Sabbath  schools, 
or  could  they  attend  one  of  our  juvenile  concerts,  and  sw- 
round  the  fireside  of  many  of  our  families,  they  would  be 
convinced  of  the  fallacy  of  their  theory.  Plainly  would  they 
perceive  that  music  is  one  of  the  earliest  developments  of 
infancy,  the  most  pleasing  charmer  of  the  child ;  and  that 
man,  defined  as  he  may  be,  is  naturally  musical,  with  some 
rare  exceptions  ;  in  other  words,  that  7nusic  is  one  of  the  very 
elements  of  tlie  soul  and  the  voice,  implanted  there  by  an  all- 
wise  Creator;  and  that  these  latent  powers,  these  germs, 
which  are  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  nature  which  God  hath 


LEAEN     TO     SIlS'G.  215 

given  us,  need,  only  to  be  cultivated  in  order  to  send  out 
upon  an  atmosphere  exactly  adapted  thereto  a  combination 
of  the  sweetest  notes  of  soug.     As  the  poet  has  it — 

"There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds; 
Some  chord,  in  unison  with  what  we  hear, 
Is  touched  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies.'' 

"What  is  it  that  solaces  while  it  saddens  the  lonely  exile  in 
a  distant  land  of  strangers?  'Tis  the  song  of  "  Home,  sweet 
Home.''  What  occasions  the  tear-drops  to  start  warm  to 
his  eyelids,  the  palpitations  of  his  heart  to  quicken,  and 
recollections  of  olden  time  to  pass  before  his  mental  vision  ? 
Hark,  ye,  and  listen  to  those  snatches  of  some  domestic  tune 
or  national  air,  by  a  careless  passer-by.  Tlie  deepest  foun- 
tains of  his  soul  are  stirred  within  him,  and  he  involuntarily 
tm-ns  his  wishful  gaze  toward  his  native  land.  How  ini- 
pressibly  dear,  amid  all  the  toils  of  maturer  years,  and 
the  cares  which  crowd,  and  throng,  and  press  upon  us  in 
life's  meridian,  are  the  remembrances  of  those  songs  from 
a  fond  mother's  lips,  or  a  loved  sister's  voice,  or  a  visitor 
from  abroad,  which  were  music  to  our  ears  and  hearts  in 
tender  infancy  or  childhood's  sunny  days. 

The  most  of  those  families  who  are  unable,  for  want  of 
pecuniary  means,  to  attend  public  concerts,  can,  if  they  de- 
sire it,  have  excellent  concerts  at  home,  preparatory  to  enter- 
ing upon  the  everlasting  concert  of  the  redeemed,  in  the 
mansions  of  glory,  whither  Christ,  our  forerunner,  hath  gone 
to  provide  accommodations  for  all  His  chosen  followers. 
Would  we  feel  at  home  amid  the  choirs  of  angelic  and  ran- 
somed ones  above,  we  must  imbibe  a  taste  for  similar  em- 
ployments here  on  earth.  "  And  I  heard  a  voice  from 
heaven,  as  the  voice  of  many  waters,  and  as  the  voice  of  a 
great  thunder ;  and  I  heard  the  voice  of  harpers  harping 
with  their  harps ;  and  they  sung,  as  it  were,  a  new  song  be- 
fore the  throne." 


Good  temper  is  like  a  sunny  day ;  it  sheds  a  brightness 

'P.r  pvprv  fill  nor 


over  every  thing 


216  TEMrEKANCE. 

TEMPERANCE. 

BY    W.    B.    HOVEY. 

Pkacp:ful  harbinger  of  mercy! 

Swiftly  speed  upon  tliy  way ; 
Gather  souls  from  sure  destruction, 

Guide  them  to  eternal  day. 

Let  naught  thy  glorious  flight  impede, 
O'er  this  gloomy  world  of  pain  ; 

'Till  all  are  in  thy  bosom  gathered, 
From  the  tempting  cup  refrain. 

Yes  !  blest  messenger  of  Heaven, 
Still  pursue  thine  onward  flight ; 

Guide  us  by  thine  own  sweet  presence 
To  that  world  of  pure  delight. 


CULTIVATION   OF   TASTE. 

BY     MRS.      A.     E.     GILLETT. 

Taste,  the  peculiar  attribute  of  man,  the  faculty  that  im- 
parts to  him  his  extreme  sensibility  to  order,  harmony,  and 
congruity,  is  one  of  the  purest  and  most  delicate  of  the  in- 
tellectual faculties,  and  is  susceptible  of  the  most  refined 
culture.  It  endures,  not  only  while  opinions  vary,  and  the 
unsubstantial  pageants  of  the  world  vanish,  but  w^hile  gene- 
rations themselves  appear  and  pass  away.  It  assures  us,  that 
what  first  awakened  emotions  of  beauty  and  sublimity,  w^ill 
continue  to  cause  vibrations  in  our  hearts  as  long  as  life  shall 
endure.  It  is  not  like  the  more  highly-prized  faculty.  Genius, 
limited  to  the  chosen  few,  but  it  is  the  common  property  of 
the  whole  human  race.  The  meanest,  and  most  ungifted, 
have  their  innate  ]3erceptions  of  beauty,  wdiich  contribute 
much  to  their  innocent  enjoyments.  The  truly  beautiful  and 
sublime,  in  the  works  of  nature  or  of  art,  require  no  recon- 
dite learning,  no  high-reaching  imagination,  to  enabl'^  us  to 
appreciate  and  feel  them. 


CULTIVATION     OF     TASTE.  217 

"  Ask  the  swain 
Who  journics  homeward,  from  a  summer  clay's 
Long  labor,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils, 
And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 
The  sunshine,  gleaming,  as  through  amber  clouds, 
O'er  all  the  western  sky  ?     Full  soon,  I  ween, 
His  rude  expression,  and  untutored  air, 
Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 
The  form  of  Beauty  smiling  at  his  heart. 
How  lovely,  how  commanding!" 

If  to  tlie  uncultivated  taste  the  lawn,  tlie  grove,  the  moun- 
tain, the  firmament,  and  the  ocean,  afford  unceasing  and  un- 
sated  pleasures,  what  exquisite  gratification  will  they  impart 
to  it  when,  by  refinement  and  cultivation,  it  is  enabled  to 
detect  the  secret  analogies  of  beauty,  and  bring  kindred 
graces  from  all  parts  of  nature,  to  heighten  the  images  which 
they  reveal.  To  a  person  of  such  a  taste,  the  lowdiest  flower 
that  "  blushes  unseen,  and  w^astes  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air,"  discloses  the  loveliest  tints,  and  the  most  attractive 
sweetness,  w^hile,  to  him  of  uncultivated  taste,  nothing  is 
perceived  but  mere  form  and  color ;  who,  while  he  passes  it 
by  with  stoical  indifi'erance,  deprives  himself  of  a  highly  re- 
fined source  of  delightful  amusement.  From  a  pure  and 
polished  taste,  the  lively  and  vivid  j)leasures  of  the  imagi- 
nation are  almost  entirely  derived ;  to  it,  the  elegant  arts 
owe  their  choicest  beauties  ;  and  without  it,  poetry  would  be 
divested  of  all  her  imagery  and  embellishment,  and  her 
magic  power  to  charm  would  rest  in  unbroken  slumber. 
Kiceness  and  accuracy  of  taste  produce  amiability  of  man- 
ners and  true  politeness ;  which,  by  calling  forth  the  sensi- 
bilites  of  our  nature  render  us  tenderly  awake  to  all  the 
sympathetic  virtues  that  adorn  and  grace  the  human  char- 
acter. 

In  this  age  of  caprice  and  extravagance  nothing  can  con- 
tribute more  to  keep  us  within  the  bounds  of  moderation  and 
good  sense,  than  a  careful  cultivation  of  the  taste.  The  love 
of  ornament  is  progressive,  and  insensibly  steals  upon  us  in 
the  progress  of  society,  till  our  distempered  taste  leads  us  to 
prefer  gorgeous  and  profuse  decorations,  to  elegant  refine- 
ment, simplicity,  and  the  truly  sublime.     By  cultivating  our 


218  THE     EOLIAN     HAKP. 

taste,  we  sliall  be  enabled  to  correct  tliis  wrong  bias.  A 
pure  and  refined  taste  will  produce  such  a  nice  harmony  be- 
tween the  fancy  and  the  judgment,  that  the  former  will 
never  give  a  preforance  to  what  the  latter  condemns.  It  will 
correct,  refine,  and  polish  the  understanding.  It  will  add 
grace  and  dignity  to  manners,  and  give  to  its  possessor  that 
influence  which  vanity  and  ambition  covet. 

If  the  faculty  of  taste  holds  that  rank  in  the  intellectual 
system  which  has  been  ascribed  to  it,  it  will  certainly  be  un- 
necessary to  urge  fm-ther  motives,  to  provide  suitable  and 
appropriate  means  for  its  cultivation.  Every  one  will  readily 
admit  that  it  merits  distinguished  attention ;  that  it  should 
be  refined  and  improved  with  unremitted  labor;  that  it 
should  be  cultivated  with  assiduous  care.  The  most  effectual 
means  for  doing  this,  seems  to  be  the  spread  of  science  and 
learning,  together  with  the  exercise  of  moral  and  religious 
influence.  The  friendly  influence  of  these  over  the  faculty 
of  taste,  will  not  be  questioned  by  any  who  have  enjoyed 
their  advantages  themselves,  or  witnessed  their  general  effect 
upon  the  minds  of  others.  Of  a  person  who  is  fully  imbued 
with  them,  it  may  be  justly  said: 

"  That  the  meanest  fiowret  of  the  vale. 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies. 
To  him  are  opening  paradise." 


THE    EOLIAN    HAEP. 

BY     M.    A.    A.    PHINNEY. 

Thou  hast  sweet  music,  thou  wind-harp,  low, 
A  sweetest  lay,  in  thy  plaintive  flow, 
And  thy  chords  are  touched  by  fairy  hands, 
As  they  gather  round  thee  in  unseen  bands. 

Thou  bringest  fond  recollections  back, 
As  they  linger  still,  on  mem'ry's  track; 
Thou  bringest  thought  of  those  harps  above, 
Whose  chords  ai-e  touched  by  the  saints  of  love. 


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